


Interventions and Lullabies

by ProfessorSpork



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Coming of Age, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Homelessness, Multi, Polyamory, Queer Families, Romance, Sexual Experimentation, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:24:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorSpork/pseuds/ProfessorSpork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S3 AU. In a world where Shelby never comes back to town, Rachel finds herself boyfriendless and in the habit of taking in strays. Housing Sam to save the glee club is one thing, but she can't help but feel like Quinn is in trouble... rating and pairings on a sliding spectrum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Ready, I Am

**Author's Note:**

> Some things you should know before we start: this story is not for OTP shippers. This is a story about how people grow up, and about how relationships can change, and about how sexuality is fluid. The endgame is emotional maturity, and if you like Rachel, Quinn, and Sam as people, you'll like this. If you go in only looking for sweet lady kisses—or sweet het kisses, I don't know—you'll probably be disappointed. Here's hoping you can keep an open mind, and trust me.

"Dad? Daddy? I… we need to talk."

Leroy Berry puts down his book— _Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close_ , because Hiram is exactly the kind of bibliophilic freak who won't let him see the film unless he's read the novel first, and he has so little free time that he needs several months head start—to give his daughter his full attention. Because the last time she started a conversation like this, it was only a week ago, and, well…

* * *

_He was making dinner with Hiram when they heard the front door slam._

" _Rachel? How was your vocal lesson?" he called into the foyer._

" _I didn't go," she said tersely, storming into the kitchen. She looked furious; her eyes were rimmed with red in a way that made him suspect she'd been crying, but he couldn't be sure. "I got—delayed—at glee."_

" _Did something happen?" Hiram asked, putting down his spatula to give her his full attention. "What's wrong?"_

" _Everything!" she cried, throwing her backpack on the floor and herself into a chair before burying her head in her arms with an air of total dejection._

_Her fathers shared a mutely amused glance. "Would you care to elaborate?"_

" _Finn Hudson is the most disappointing person in the history of the world," she said into the dinner table._

_Suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore. "Did you break up?" Leroy walked over and knelt next to her, rubbing her back._

" _Finn outed Santana."_

" _Julio Lopez's girl?" He rarely ran into Dr. Lopez, seeing as plastics and pediatrics were on different floors, but still. He's a respected colleague, even if he was a conservative one._

_Rachel nodded, which basically consisted of tilting her forehead deeper into the crevice of her elbow._

" _How did Finn…?"_

" _A few days ago, at school. She was making fun of him about something and he made a comment back about… I don't even know, about how at least he doesn't hide who he is? He refused to give me the straight story, but whatever he said, it was incriminating. And he didn't see fit to tell me about it, only someone overheard him in the hallway and one of Sue's congressional competitors found out as a result."_

" _Sue?" Hiram asked, puzzled. "What does Coach Sylvester have to do with anything?"_

" _Santana was the captain of her squad. And now they're running a smear ad about how Sue's an ally. Or they're going to. And Santana is their poster girl."_

_Leroy swallowed hard, feeling like he was going to be sick. "So that poor girl just got outed to all of Ohio."_

" _She hasn't even told her parents yet. And the worst part," Rachel said, voice cracking so badly she had to clear her throat, "the worst part was that Finn wouldn't even admit he'd done something wrong. He had no idea why an apology wasn't enough, let alone why he should apologize in the first place. You'd think after what happened to Kurt, he'd—" She stopped, pursed her lips, and inhaled through her nose. "He got upset at the fact that I was angry at him, and we broke up."_

" _All of that, over this?" Hiram asked. "I thought you didn't even like Santana."_

" _No, I do," she protested, before admitting, "as much as I can like anyone who goes out of their way to be spiteful, petty and vindictive. But I know a lot of that attitude comes from her fears, and—and now they've been realized. No one deserves to be outed like that, Dad. And I don't know what her parents are like, and she could lose her home over this. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened in glee."_

" _Honey… I don't want to force anyone into anything, but if something terrible were to happen, we would always let her stay here. You know that, right?"_

_She looked up at him with her big doe eyes. "Are you sure?"_

_Hiram glanced at Leroy over her head, conversing with him silently. "Of course, sweetheart."_

_She laughed brokenly. "The funny thing is, I haven't even told you the worst part."_

" _Yes, you did," Leroy reminded her, "but you can tell us the worse worst part."_

_She picked her head up to give him a dirty look. "Coach Sylvester got Finn suspended for sexual harassment, which was, yes, supportive of Santana, but it also makes New Directions ineligible for competition. Sectionals are in two and a half weeks."_

" _Finn won't be back in time?"_

" _He will, but with things the way they are… I just can't imagine we could welcome him back. Not without a period of reflection, and a chance for him to redeem himself."_

" _You'll figure something out," Hiram said, rubbing her shoulder. "You always do."_

* * *

He'd been hoping that would be enough drama for the month.

"What's going on, baby doll?" Leroy asks, bracing himself.

"You know how you said that if the Lopezes kicked Santana out, you'd let her stay here?"

"Of course we remember. Has the commercial run? Did something happen?"

"No. Well, yes, something's happened, but not—it's something else. Someone else. And I… may have made a mistake."

"Would that mistake have something to do with why the school called my office this afternoon, informing me that you've received a week's suspension?" Hiram asks.

_Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close_ drops to the floor with a thump. "You what?" Leroy gasps, before whirling on his husband. "She what? _Why?_ "

"She tried to fix the school election in Kurt's favor."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Because I wanted to give Rachel the chance to explain herself. Which she's going to do, _right now,_ " Hiram says, before turning his serious gaze on their daughter.

Rachel palms the hem of her dress nervously. "I know that cheating is wrong, and we can talk about that later, but right now there are more important things going on. The future of the glee club is at stake!"

"No, Rachel," Leroy grits out, still feeling angry, caught off-guard and very much out of the loop, "we are not going to talk about it later. We are going to talk about it now."

"You got suspended, sweetheart. We can't just ignore that. It's going to go on your permanent record. How are we supposed to explain this? The admissions people at NYADA are going to see it; all of your safety schools are going to see it. And if you think stroking Kurt Hummel's ego is worth jeopardizing your future, then we really need to talk about your priorities—both for yourself and as a friend."

"I did this to _be_ a good friend! I don't want to—I can't go to New York without him! It wouldn't be fair."

"Life isn't fair. It's not your responsibility to get Kurt to New York, Rachel—it's Kurt's. And I know he's important to you, but when you talk like that, you make it sound like you don't think you'll ever make a friend like him again. And that's simply not true."

Rachel's bottom lip quivers for a moment before she collapses into the couch, holding her head in her hands.

"I know. I know all of that. I'm so sorry. It was so stupid."

"Then why did you do it?" Leroy bursts out, frustrated. Hiram shoots him a look and holds out a placating hand before turning back to Rachel, expression morphing into what Leroy had long ago dubbed his Parenting Face. The one that says _we're not looking to punish you; we just want to understand._

"I just wanted him to have something. I got Maria and I've always been meticulous about fostering a strong extracurricular background, but Kurt's application just seemed so empty and he's so spectacular, and I didn't—I don't—" She stops for a moment to collect herself, catching her breath. "It's not that I need to have Kurt with me; it's that Kurt belongs there and deserves it just as much as I do. And I know that you raised be to believe in the inherent goodness of people, and I know that stuffing the ballot box wasn't just wrong because I cheated. It was an insult to Kurt for thinking he couldn't get the votes on his own, and an insult to my peers for not giving them the benefit of the doubt that they would do the right thing, but how _can_ I? How can I believe that, when the bullies at this school forced him to transfer last year? How can I believe that the people who voted him for prom queen six months ago would vote to make him class president now? I'm sorry, but I just… can't lie to myself like that anymore. Maybe I used to be able to, but I can't. It hurts too much to be disappointed all the time."

Wordlessly, her fathers move off their recliners to sit down next to her, sandwiching her on the couch. She sniffles and buries herself in her Daddy's shoulder as her Dad comfortingly runs his hand up and down her arm.

"Then that's what we'll tell NYADA," he says.

"What?"

"About the suspension. We're going to write a letter to Admissions explaining what happened, and you're going to tell them what you just told me. Leaving out the part about how you wouldn't trust them to take someone as talented as Kurt without padding his resume, of course. But about what they did to him at prom, and how this wasn't about winning, but about making a social statement, and about Kurt's self-esteem. None of that's not true, sweetheart, and they just can't ignore someone with a heart that big."

She sniffles and turns to face him. "I hate it when you go all lawyer-y about things."

"Making your future possible is my job, Rachel," Hiram says, staring her in the eyes. "And so is being a lawyer. I can't help it when the two overlap."

Leroy wraps his arm around her and squeezes. "Now that that's out of the way, how about we talk about saving glee club?"

"Really?" she asks tearfully.

"No, Rachel, I'd rather yell at you all night," he says sarcastically, with a soft smile. "I'm dying of curiosity here. Why does glee need saving? And why did you ask us about Santana?"

"It's… sort of a long story," Rachel says, before sitting up straighter and taking a deep breath. "The short version is that I can't sing at Sectionals because of my suspension, so I want to see if I can convince Sam to come back to McKinley."

"His family moved for financial reasons; you can't just expect them to—"

"I don't," she interrupts. "I don't expect them to move back here. That's why I asked you about Santana. Because I was thinking… I was thinking maybe just Sam would transfer, and he could live with us."

"No," Leroy says.

"Daddy!"

"Rachel, that's insane."

"Hold on, Lee, let's hear her out," Hiram soothes. "Rachel, I don't want to reject you out of hand, but I have to admit, most of me agrees with your father. Isn't that a bit… drastic?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"There's a difference between desperate measures and being unrealistic," Leroy says as calmly as he can. "I understand that you need to fill out your ranks in order to be able to compete, but there's got to be another way. You got the Ben Israel boy to do it a few years ago; why not try that again? Or, um, what about What's-Her-Face? … Splenda? Didn't you say she tried out for glee?"

"Her name is Sugar, and she was… terrible isn't even a strong enough word, Daddy. She's tone deaf. And she pretends to have Asperger's in order to get away with being rude; it's abhorrent."

"Beggars can't be choosers, sweetheart."

"I refuse for us to be beggars. Desperate, yes, but not beggars. We need another chance at Nationals, and if we're going to have a serious shot at it we can't try and get by on substitutions. Otherwise we'd just, I don't know, pack our numbers with the guys from jazz band or something. We need _strong voices,_ not people to sway in the background. And adding my suspension to Finn's, we have a two-person deficit to fill."

"No luck talking to Quinn, huh?"

"Not… as such, no," she sighs. That encounter really hadn't accomplished anything.

* * *

_The McKinley High football stadium had never really been Rachel's turf. The field was the property of the jocks and the Cheerios; the stands for their adoring fans, and friends with whom Rachel never quite managed to belong. And under the bleachers?_

" _Are you **lost** , Tinkerbell?"_

_Well, that was for the criminal element._

" _Thank you, um, The Mack, but I'm not lost. I was wondering if I could talk to Quinn?"_

" _Ten bucks she'll ask Q to rejoin glee club," Ronnie stage whispered to Sheila. "Again."_

_They all laughed; Quinn looked up at her over the top of her sunglasses. "Why are you here, Berry? Doing damage control for your boyfriend?"_

" _He's not my boyfriend." Quinn raised an eyebrow, and Rachel sighed, wrapping her arms around her midriff. "I broke up with him."_

" _Good for you." Her cigarette bobbled with every syllable; Rachel tried not to stare at the movement._

" _But, um," Rachel shifted uncomfortably, "because of what he did, New Directions is short a member, and I was hoping that—"_

" _No," Sheila said, and Quinn gave her a dirty look._

" _I can do that myself, Sheila, thanks," she muttered, before turning to Rachel. "No."_

" _But—"_

" _Not my problem, Berry."_

" _But glee needs you."_

" _Needs my voice, you mean," Quinn corrected lazily. Rachel wished Quinn weren't wearing sunglasses; it was that much harder to read her when she couldn't see her eyes._

" _This isn't about collecting warm bodies; it's about doing this right. It won't be the same without the original members. You're a part of what makes glee club great."_

_She laughed. "Go hunt down Matt Rutherford, then, if you want founding members so badly. He's a lot more likely to join up than I am."_

" _Quinn, please. This isn't funny."_

" _Looks pretty hilarious from where I'm sitting," The Mack quipped, and Rachel's shoulders hunched in on themselves._

" _I know we all haven't always been the best of friends, but Santana needs you. If you won't do it for me, do it for her."_

" _And where was Santana when **I** needed **her**?" Quinn asked, tapping her cigarette to get rid of the buildup of ash._

_Rachel winced. "I… I wish I had an answer for you. I'm sorry that things have been so hard for you, Quinn, and I know that has to be painful. But if you hold onto that forever, how will anything ever get any better?"_

" _That's an excellent question. It's too bad Oprah's not on the air anymore; it would have made a great episode."_

" _Nice one, Q," Ronnie snorted, reaching out to bump fists._

_(It wasn't even that funny, in Rachel's opinion. Skank culture eluded her completely.)_

" _Look," Quinn sighed, "It's cute that you're so blindly devoted to glee club that you would come to me, of all people, for help. Really. It's like… I don't know, watching a puppy repeatedly run into a glass door. But eventually, you've got to get a clue. I'm not your girl, okay? Find someone else."_

* * *

"She's usually much harsher in her rejections, so in a way it's progress," Rachel muses, "but I just don't know if I can change her mind in time, even if I do stand a chance. But she was right about one thing—she's not the only ex-New Direction in the world. Of course I can't get Matt back, but that doesn't mean it's such a ridiculous idea at its core. And… and maybe I can get Sam."

"Pretending, for a moment, that this isn't the most…" Leroy frowns, struggling to come up with the right word.

"Meshugge?" Hiram suggests.

"I was going to go with _ass-backwards—_ "

"Daddy!"

"—but meshugge works too. What, are you going to make me put a quarter in the swear jar?"

Rachel grumbles to herself.

"But really, baby doll. If we were to tell you it's okay, how would this even work?"

"Well, my, um… my suspension is effective immediately, so I was thinking that tomorrow I would get up early and drive down to Florence, so I could meet him at his school. I would wait and try and catch him at home, but I don't have his personal address, and he'll probably have an after-school job of some kind."

Hiram frowns. "Rachel, that's—"

"A straight shot on I-75, only two and a half hours if there's no traffic—"

"Which there will be, 'cause you'll be passing through both Dayton and Cinci on a Friday afternoon," Leroy interjects.

"It's not a question of whether we think you're capable of making the drive or not. Couldn't you call him? Or contact him on Facebook?"

"That would make it too easy for him to say no. If I put in the effort, he'll feel much more guilty about it, and therefore more likely to agree."

Hiram turns to Leroy with a funny smile on his face. "We've created a monster."

Leroy sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why do you always make me be the bad cop? I'm not doing this to be mean. And under different circumstances, I wouldn't have a problem with it. I really wouldn't. But we said Santana could stay here if her parents kicked her out; if she had nowhere else to go. Sam… Sam has a life, Rachel. You can't just take him out of it. He's happy where he is."

She leaps up from the couch without warning, spinning to look down on him with wide, manic eyes. "What if he's not?"

"… Are we going to sit here and play Hypotheticals all night?"

"No, I mean it. What if he's _not_ happy where he is? What if he misses us like crazy and only needs an opportunity?"

"You can't know that."

"No, I can't," she agrees, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes. "Not unless I drive down and talk to him. And if you're right, you're right, and all I've done is waste some gas. But if _I'm_ right… please, Daddy?"

He turns to his husband to get out of the way of her Care Bear Stare. "What do you think, hon?"

Hiram's already smiling in defeat, the traitor. "I think we'll never hear the end of it if we don't let her have her way."

"Aren't we supposed to be punishing her or something?" He turns back to Rachel. "Forgive me, maybe I'm getting senile in my old age, but I thought you came in here all suspended and crazy. Why do you win?"

"Because you raised me to be a winner," she replies with a show smile.

" _Monster_ ," Hiram mouths again, grinning.

"Okay, fine. Fine. Go on your road trip of madness and bring me back a Bieber impersonator. See if I care."

She squeals and hugs him tightly. "You're the best, Daddy."

"Yeah, and don't go forgetting it, Bane Of My Existence."

"I don't get a hug?" Hiram pouts.

She smiles softly and embraces him. "You're the best, too, Dad."

"But I was the best first, so I make the rules," Leroy says. "Go… I don't know, go to your room or something."

She smirks. "Am I grounded?"

"Yes."

She shrugs. "That's fair. I guess I'll…" she pauses contemplatively. "I was going to say _I guess I'll go do my homework,_ but gosh, I suppose that won't be a priority for the next few days."

Leroy groans. "Out of my sight, demon child."


	2. The Night Life Is Just Not For Me

She wakes at 6:00 sharp to her iPod blaring, and the first thing she sees—by design—is her motivation board. On it, typed in large, bold font, is:

**REPLACE FINN**   
**GET KURT ELECTED**

…Oops.

Wincing, Rachel reaches out and turns off her alarm, silencing Matthew Wilder. Her room feels much too large in the quiet. She bites her lip, feeling guilty, then gets up and walks over to her desk. Pulling a piece of paper out of her printer, she takes a teal Sharpie from her drawer and writes a new goal in block letters ( _SAVE GLEE CLUB),_ then affixes it to the wall in front of her elliptical.

There. Nice and vague. Hopefully vague enough that she can actually succeed, for once.

It would be a nice change after the month she's had.

* * *

She's about a third of the way into the original Broadway cast recording of _The King and I_ (having already sung through the entirety of _South Pacific_ ) when she spies a water tower that says FLORENCE, Y'ALL further down the highway.

Oh sweet Rodgers and Hammerstein, she's really in Kentucky.

Her GPS gets her to Boone County High School without difficulty, but once she's there, the flaws in her otherwise flawless plan immediately make themselves known: she has no idea where Sam might be in the building, and there are multiple exits and a great number of other students blocking her gaze.

Should she text him?

She considers it for a moment. She knows he had his phone turned off for a while in Lima, because his family was trying to cut back on unnecessary expenses, but she can't imagine that he's had to change his number since it was reactivated. At worst, contacting him would ruin the fantastically dramatic reunion she'd had planned in her head—how she'd call out to him and he'd turn around looking utterly baffled, and how his eyes would widen in surprise and then soften with joy and gratitude. (She's always been excellent at visualization exercises.) But really, realizing that picturesque scenario isn't worth the risk of losing him in the crowd. And maybe she's had enough drama lately.

Decision made, she locks her car and digs her phone out of her purse. As she walks towards the main courtyard, she shoots off a quick text: **Meet me under the flag pole in five minutes, please. – Rachel***

She does her best to take slow, even breaths as she waits for his reply. About a minute and a half later, she gets one.

**U 4got 2 take me off ur glee mass txt list**

The urge to slap her forehead is unbearably strong. **I'm not at McKinley, Sam. I mean YOUR flagpole.**

After another two minutes, he emerges from the building and walks over to meet her. The look on his face is impossible to interpret.

"Rachel, what are you doing here?"

Maybe not the warmest of welcomes. She plasters on her winningest smile. "It's wonderful to see you too, Sam."

He glances down. "Look, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be rude, but now's a pretty bad time and I just don't—"

"I want you to come back to Lima," she blurts.

A look of pure, incredulous hope crosses over his face before he stifles it. "What?"

"The glee club needs you, and I want you to come back to McKinley with me to sing with New Directions."

"Rachel, that's… crazy. I know you guys miss me, and I miss you too, but—"

"Much as we miss you, Sam, this isn't just some arbitrary whim. If you don't come back with me, we can't perform. We're under the member limit as I've been temporarily banned from the stage." She doesn't mention that Finn's been kicked out of the group as well, perhaps permanently—Sam's in a rush, and brevity is therefore key.

"What? Why?" he asks in a gasp, before shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. "No, it's— _no._ I don't have time for this. Rachel, I'm really sorry you came all this way, but I can't talk right now. I have to get to work."

"That's fine. We can walk and talk. Though really, it's something of a long tale, so perhaps I'll just start to explain while you drive over, and we can pick up the discussion after work? However long your shift lasts, I don't mind waiting."

He looks stricken. "That's not a good idea."

"Sam, unless you work at a butcher shop, I don't see why I can't come with you." She searches his face for a sign that he's giving in, and tries to soften her own expression. "Please. I drove all this way."

He runs a hand through his hair; she notes that the tips of his ears have turned red. "My car is on the opposite side of campus, I can't just—I really can't be late."

"My car is just across the courtyard; I'll drive you to yours, and then follow you to your work. We can talk there. Okay?"

"Do you _ever_ give up?" Sam asks, then smiles ruefully. "What am I saying; of course you don't. You're Rachel Berry."

"Since the day I was born," she agrees, leading him back to where she parked.

"So… why are you banned? Is it a handicap to make it more fair for the other teams or something?" he asks as they wind their way through the crowd.

She trips over her own feet, which is uncharacteristic—she's normally quite graceful. "What?"

"Well, it's like… I dunno. I always kinda felt like we were all just the Scoobies to your Slayer. So it would make sense not to send you in for the first round; that's bringing a gun to a knife fight. Or vampire slayers to… um. Show choir. Sorry, I sorta lost that one."

She beams at him as she unlocks her door. "I have no idea what any of that meant, but I'm pretty sure it's one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me."

* * *

The parking lot of the building he drives to is surprisingly full for a Friday afternoon. She has no idea why he sought employment at a restaurant/bar called "Stallionz," but knows he needs the money, so she doesn't say anything.

"You're really going to follow me in?" he asks when she exits her car and catches up with him. For each of his strides, she needs to take two; he can't help but smile a little.

"It would be inefficient and tedious for me to wait in my car for you all night, don't you think?"

"I guess, it's only that—" He pauses his speech to reach out and hold the door open for her; she smiles at his gallantry and enters the building, squinting so her eyes will adjust to the comparative darkness. "—It's only that we won't really get to talk much, in here."

"Hopefully you'll find time to speak with me," she says, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the mingled scent of cigarette smoke, stale beer and frying beef that assails her nostrils.

"My shift ends at six thirty; are you sure we just can't talk then?"

"Sam, I'm already here," she points out.

He leads her to a booth tucked away in a back corner, and sighs. "Okay. You win."

"You'll come?"

"What? No! Look, just… if you still even want me to come back to Lima after this, then we'll talk. But don't ask me until you know everything."

She frowns at how cryptic he's being. "I can't imagine that anything would change my mind."

"Of course you can't," he says softly, smiling in a broken sort of way. "Well. Chill here, then. I'll come talk to you when I can."

He walks away to do whatever it is he has to do to get ready for his shift, and she finally takes a moment to absorb her surroundings. Most of the patrons appear to be women, which strikes her as slightly odd—she's always associated places like this with testosterone and aggression. There's a small stage adorned with silver streamers at the other end of the bar, and she wonders if this is, in fact, some kind of dinner theater establishment. Normally she'd say it's too seedy for that, but… she's in Kentucky.

"Can I get you anything?"

Rachel jumps at the voice, and turns to see a woman in her mid-thirties standing over her, pad and pen in hand. The name tag on her polo shirt reads _Sandra._ "Oh, um. Just a water, please? With lemon or lime, if you have it."

"Ice?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Sure thing. Show'll be starting in a minute; guess you want your wits about you," Sandy says, throwing her a wink, then walks away to fill her order.

… What _show_?

By the time Sandra returns with her beverage, about a dozen more women have come in. They've started clustering around the stage, and Rachel can't contain her curiosity. Just as she's about to take out her cell phone and text Sam, wanting to put an end to the suspense, the lights go down and a voice crackles over the speakers.

"Good afternoon, ladies—are you ready to meet the men of Stallionz?" Most of the women in the bar start cheering, and a frown begins to form on Rachel's face. "Then please welcome to the stage—Cobra!"

A man in a fireman's uniform jumps onto the stage and starts gyrating his hips, and—no. No. This can't be happening.

"Someone get the door, because here comes: Mr. Package!"

Please don't let this be happening.

"And ladies, let's give a warm welcome to… White Chocolate!"

Sam is a stripper.

Sam is a _stripper._

She averts her gaze, and spends the next fifteen minutes examining a knot in the wood paneling on the wall and trying to put a name to what it is she's feeling. It's not shame or judgment, or even second-hand embarrassment… or first-hand embarrassment, for that matter. It feels like… like…

She remembers the summer before sixth grade, she got to go to a performing arts camp. At the end of the session, they put on a big musical—that year it was _Cats,_ and Rachel was cast as Bombalurina. It had been her first big part, and she'd been thrilled. She committed to the role whole-heartedly… and she will never forget how it echoed in her ears when she first took the stage and her fathers screamed out her name.

She'd been mortified and livid.

That night she wasn't supposed to be Rachel Berry; she'd been Bombalurina the Jellicle Cat. Her dads had taken that from her, and that's the closest thing she can think of to what she's feeling now. That it's a violation of Sam's trust to watch him when he's trying to be a professional and she doesn't have the capacity to look at him as such. She may know Sam Evans, but she doesn't know _White Chocolate_ , nor would she ever care to seek him out of her own volition. And she has to honor that. He deserves to feel comfortable in his work environment.

Her stomach twists.

How did this _happen?_ He's not even eighteen; she's sure this can't be legal.

Finally, their… routine comes to a close, with the announcer promising they'll be back within the hour. She isn't sure what to do with herself—whether she should look for Sam, or if he'll find her, or if he has to work the bar when he's not dancing and she won't be able to talk to him for several hours. Before she can get too engrossed in the possibilities, her phone vibrates in her pocket.

**If u still wanna talk, go thru employees only door by the bthrooms. Ill meet u.**

It's followed quickly by, **Its ok if u dont.**

Her heart breaks a little.

There's nothing quite like being suspended from school to dull the thrill of rule-breaking, and she mostly feels sick with guilt as she ignores the Employees Only sign and heads straight through to the backstage area of the bar. Sam is waiting just on the other side of the door—fully clothed once more—and before she can stop herself, she's up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck and embrace him.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles into his clavicle, squeezing tightly. "I normally warn people before I do this."

"Um, that's okay," he says, hesitantly reaching up with one hand to rub her back a little. "Hugs are cool." Blushing, she gets off of him.

"Do you have time to talk?"

"Yeah; I'm not on again for an hour. They don't like us being out in the bar much; it ruins the, like. Mystery or something. Hey, Connor," he greets casually as the gentleman Rachel knows only as _Mr. Package_ walks past them, presumably to get to the bathroom. "C'mon—we'll have a little bit more privacy in back."

He leads her down two hallways to what appears to be a back office-cum-locker room. "Onion ring?" he offers, taking the fresh plate from the desk and holding it out to her.

"Have they been fried in the same oil as animal products?"

"Uh, probably." He collapses into a rolling desk chair.

"Then no thank you."

"Sorry."

"It's okay," she says, not wanting him to feel bad. "So… who do you want to go first?"

He rubs his arm, just above his elbow. "Is it cool if you talk for a bit? I feel kind of…"

"No, sure. Of course."

She doesn't know where to start, so she tells him everything. About Santana; about Finn. About Kurt and NYADA and how intimidated she is by girls like Harmony, and how they won't even be able to compete against her in Sectionals, let alone win, if she can't find two more performers.

When she finally stops rambling, he stares at her. "And you want me to… come back to McKinley, learn all of Finn's parts in a week, and then…?"

"You can stay with us," Rachel says simply. "Our guest room is very comfortable, and my fathers already like to pick on me about being outnumbered by Y chromosomes. You'd fit right in, really."

He frowns and slowly runs his hands through his hair, massaging his scalp. "Rachel, I can't. My parents need me here."

"Here?" she repeats, trying not to sound judgmental. "Working as an exotic dancer in an establishment called _Stallionz_?"

He flinches. "They think I work at Dairy Queen. Look, it would be awesome if I could just, like, run back to Ohio with you and forget all my problems and be a kid again. But I can't. I have to be responsible."

"How is this responsible? How is this even _legal_?"

"It's… not. I used a fake ID to get hired. But, like—look. I just danced for fifteen minutes, and I made sixty bucks. I have two more appearances before my shift ends, and the tips are only gonna get better. Working for minimum wage at the DQ could never make me that kind of cash, and… "

"And?" she prompts softly, when it becomes clear that he's not going to finish that thought on his own.

"I've gotta help take care of Stacey and Stevie."

"You're a kid, too," she reminds him, keeping her voice gentle.

"I can't afford to be. Not anymore."

"Then come back with me to somewhere where you can. Sam, I understand why you feel responsible, but you're not obligated to sign away your childhood. There's precious little of it left; don't wish it away because it would make other people's lives easier. Even if those other people are the ones you love most in the world."

He's finally starting to look like he's taking her seriously, but his expression isn't promising. "I can't, Rachel," he croaks after a long pause.

"You can," she corrects. "You just feel like you're not allowed to."

"Well, I shouldn't be. What kind of a guy would do that? Leave his family in the lurch?"

"You'd be leaving them with one less mouth to feed. And you could still get a job in Lima and wire the money home, if you wanted to."

"…You really don't think it'd be selfish?"

"I really don't," she says honestly. Frowning, she then amends, "But then, I've been known to have a very different barometer for what's selfish and what isn't than other people."

"I don't think you're selfish," he tells her.

"And I don't think you are, either. Especially if you swoop in and rescue an underdog glee club from peril." She gives him an encouraging smile.

He stares into space for a long moment, and then his eyes snap back up to hers. "We'll talk to my parents. Okay? But if they say no, it's no."

"That's perfectly reasonable." She bites at her lip. "Are you… still going to finish your shift?"

"I kind of have to. I'm sorry to make you wait, but if I'm gonna do this, tonight's tips might be the last chance I have to make money for a while. You have a GPS?"

"Yes."

He writes his address on a napkin and hands it to her. "Meet me there at seven, okay?"

"I don't mind staying here…" she offers, but he shakes his head.

"Please go, Rachel. You shouldn't… I'm not proud of this. I don't want you to watch."

"Seven, then," she says, reaching out to clasp him on the shoulder. She gives him a reassuring squeeze and then makes her way back out to the parking lot.

… How is she supposed to entertain herself in Kentucky for three hours?

* * *

Sam's parents are surprisingly receptive to her case.

Of course, she came well-prepared. She brought all of the transfer papers with her, having picked them up in Principal Figgins' office just for the occasion (granted, the only reason she was _in_ Principal Figgins' office is because she was getting suspended, but what Mr. and Mrs. Evans don't know won't hurt them), and it only took about a half an hour of spirited debate to get them to come around.

"So… you guys are really letting me do this?" Sam asks, aghast.

"Oh, honey," his mom says, ruffling his hair a little, "we just want you to be happy. And with your college fund in the state it's in, you deserve the chance to enjoy school however you can." She turns to Rachel. "Rachel, it's too far to drive tonight. Why don't you stay over, and you can leave in the morning?"

"Oh, I—"

"It will give Sam more time to pack. And time for us to go over any paperwork we need to sign," his dad adds.

"I wouldn't want to intrude—"

"Rachel," Mrs. Evans interjects, amused, "You're about to take in my son for the next seven or so months. I think we can take you for a night."

She gives her most gracious smile. "Let me just call my dads to let them know."

"Actually, could we talk to them? You can go hang out with Sam and we'll hash out the details."

She plugs her number into their cordless phone, and then Sam pulls her into the living room. It's an episode and a half of Man vs. Food before Sam's parents come in and join them.

"We're all set," Mr. Evans says, and Sam leaps up from the couch to hug him.

"Thank you for understanding," he says gruffly, and his dad nods.

"Sam, could you take Rachel upstairs and get her some towels?" his mom suggests. "Then get Stevie and Stacey and we'll have a family meeting about this."

"Sure," he says, offering Rachel a hand to help her up off the couch. "Follow me."

"I hope that wasn't their subtle way of telling me I smell," she says teasingly as they climb the stairs.

Sam chuckles. "Nah, I just think they wanted you to feel like you have something to do while we have a family meeting; they can run kinda long." He opens a door, leading her into the bathroom. "Towels are in that cupboard in the corner. There's plenty of hot water, so don't worry about that. My room's the one right across the hall, so just wait for me there when you're done, I guess."

* * *

Rachel finishes her shower in record time, not wanting to impose any more than she already is. Sam's room is empty when she enters, so she creeps towards the top of the stairs to check to progress of the Evans Family Meeting.

"This isn't _fair,_ " she can hear Stevie protest, his voice carrying in the cozy house. "You said the only reason we moved to Kentucky was to stay together!"

… She wishes she'd minded her own business.

Upon re-entering Sam's room, her eyes are immediately drawn the dress she'd laid out on his desk chair. She sat in traffic for four hours and entered a _strip club_ in that dress today; the idea of putting it on her freshly clean body is immensely distasteful. She wishes she'd had the foresight to pack an overnight bag, but she hadn't anticipated this at all. Clutching the towel tighter to her chest, she goes to sit on the edge of his bed.

Stevie's words won't stop echoing in her head.

Wanting to distract herself, she takes the opportunity to look around his room. It's small—smaller than hers by about half—but not uncomfortably so. Posters for comic books and movies she's never heard of adorn his dark blue walls, and she notes with pleasure that there are several pictures of the glee club scattered around among the other family portraits. It's nice. It's settled, and it feels like him, and a stab of guilt runs through her as she realizes she's taking him away from this.

"Rachel? Are you—oh, my God!"

"I promise I'm not trying to seduce you," she squeaks, automatically moving to cover herself up despite the fact that Sam's slapped his right hand over his eyes, his left still on the doorknob. "It's just that I don't have anything to wear."

His face grows red under his fingers. "Um, sorry. Hold on, I'll get you something," he says, facing the wall and moving to his dresser. He tosses a t-shirt and a pair of exercise shorts over his shoulder; Rachel doesn't even attempt to catch them, knowing that too much twisting of her torso could have disastrous results.

"I'll go to the bathroom to change," she says, picking the pajamas up off the floor. Sam still hasn't moved; he's started pulling more clothes from the drawers, his back to her. "Sam?"

"Might as well start packing, right?" he asks. She can't identify the emotion that's choking his voice.

"I guess. Do you… need any help?" she asks, hovering near his doorway.

He stops long enough to shrug. "Not really. I've gotten pretty good at packing, lately."

* * *

"Rachel? What are you doing down here?"

She turns to the sound of Sam's voice, finding him at the bottom of the stairs with his arms full of bedding.

"Oh, thank you. I was just… getting ready for bed…"

He looks at her like she's an amusing cartoon of some kind. "You thought I was going to make you sleep on the couch?"

"I'm your guest. It's only natural that—"

"You're a _girl,_ " he clarifies, shuffling forward to dump the comforter and pillow on the cushion next to her. "A gentleman doesn't make a lady sleep on the couch. It's bad form."

"Sam, that's—"

"My parents would yell at me," he clarifies, winking at her.

"Oh. Well, in that case…" She smiles and gets up from the couch, allowing him to make his bed for the evening.

"Wanna watch some TV with me before you head to bed?"

"Thank you, but no. It's been a long day."

"'Kay. Goodnight, Rachel."

She can't help the way her gaze lingers on him before she turns to climb the stairs. "Goodnight, Sam."

* * *

It's 11:30, and he still can't sleep.

Rachel went up to bed hours ago, and no matter how hard he tries, he just can't get his brain to shut up long enough to close his eyes. Part of him feels like he's been dreaming this whole time, anyway; how can it be real that he's moving back to Ohio tomorrow? Back to glee club, and to his friends, and to…

And to Mercedes.

Reaching out, he picks up his phone from the coffee table. **What wd u say if I said im gonna be mckinly on Monday?**

It's probably stupid, and he knows that, but just… he has to ask.

He waits.

**I'd say your crazy. And that I have a boyfriend.  
**

He rolls over and grins into his pillow, finally excited about this. _Yeah_ she does.


	3. So Grab Your Coat, Your Keys

Rachel wakes in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, to the sound of light knocking at the door. When she rolls over, she finds herself staring at a large poster of what looks like a cross-section of a spaceship, and—oh. She's in Kentucky.

"Rachel?" Sam's mom calls from the hallway. "Can I come in?"

She sits up and rubs the sleep out of her eyes, then stretches. "Of course."

Mrs. Evans opens the door, but doesn't step inside; her smile is broad and friendly. "Good morning. I washed your dress; I figured you wouldn't want to brave the drive wearing Sam's old things," she says, hanging the dress on the doorknob. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Just fine, thank you. And thank you again, for letting me stay," Rachel says, wanting to be as gracious a guest as possible.

"Honey, it's the least we could do. Sam told us you're a vegan, and I'm afraid we don't have much for breakfast for you, but I've made peanut butter toast and there's plenty of fruit in the fridge."

There's an acute pang in her chest at that. Even  _Sam_ remembered that she's a vegan, despite the fact that she only ever told him once, when they went out to Breadstix before prom last year. Whereas Finn couldn't even be bothered to—

But she's not dating Finn anymore, and that's part of the reason why.

She swallows. "That's very kind of you; I'll be downstairs in a minute."

Mrs. Evans just smiles, and closes the door behind her.

Rachel isn't entirely sure of what to do with Sam's clothes after she takes them off, so she just folds them neatly and puts them back on the bed before retrieving her dress. It's still warm—obviously fresh from the dryer—but it smells like Sam, which takes a moment to get used to. She makes a mental note to sneak into their laundry room and take a look at which brands they use before she leaves; it would be nice, she thinks, to give Sam a little reminder of home while he's staying with her.

The floor is covered in boxes and duffle bags, as he did most of his packing last night, and she bites her lip as she surveys his room one last time.

She hopes she's doing the right thing.

* * *

"Are you sure that's everything?" she asks as Sam shoves the last of his stuff into her trunk.

He chuckles at her. "For the last time, Rachel, yes. And if I've forgotten anything they can just FedEx it."

"I'm sorry you won't have a lot of leg room," she apologizes, gesturing at her small, outdated Honda. "My dads said there wasn't much point in buying me a new car when I'm moving to New York anyway and public transportation there is so stellar."

"That makes sense," he shrugs. "And, y'know, I'm not super-tall like Finn so I'm sure I'll be fine."

She nods, staring at her shoes, and he suddenly feels like an asshole.

"Are you, like, okay?" he asks quietly. "With the breakup?"

If she hears him, she doesn't show it—instead she wordlessly opens her door and slips into the car. "I can't drive without music, but feel free to pick from anything in here," she says, reaching under the passenger seat and pulling out a CD binder.

He gets in and flips through it curiously as she starts the car and sets up her GPS. A lot of her collection is Broadway shows he hasn't heard of, which he expected, but there's also a bunch of oldies and a few unanticipated gems that raise his brow: Daft Punk, Marina and the Diamonds, Pink Floyd, Mumford and Sons… Beyoncé, which on second thought doesn't surprise him at all.

"How about this?" he asks, pointing to a Best of the Beach Boys compilation.

Her smile is brief, but bright. "Perfect."

They've finished "Surfin' Safari" and are a part of the way through "Surfin' USA" ("I never understood why they chose to start with the two surfing songs—it makes the album feel top-heavy" Rachel had remarked) when they get onto the highway.

"Okay, I'm sorry, I just have to ask," Rachel says as "Shut Down" starts up, "What's the story behind the water tower?"

Sam laughs a little to himself as the words FLORENCE Y'ALL rise in the distance. "That was the first thing I asked when we moved here. Um, apparently it was supposed to say Florence Mall, but then there were zoning issues, I think? Something about how the mall is a private business and the water tower was public property, and there was a whole big fuss about advertising, and this was the compromise."

"… Kentucky is weird."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "Thanks for getting me out."

They spend the drive back to Lima harmonizing with Brian Wilson, grinning at each other when they break type: Rachel taking the tenor part and Sam singing in his falsetto.

* * *

Despite the cheerful mood of the drive up, Sam's pensive and silent by the time they pass the Lima city limits. Rachel spares the occasional glance at him while he stares out the window, trying to gauge his mood.

"It must be strange, being back," she offers, and he hums in vague agreement. "I—maybe this is a conversation we should have had about a hundred miles ago, but… I hope you don't feel as though I've forced you into anything. I know I can be pushy."

"What?" he asks, startling out of his stupor. "Rachel, no. If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be here. You didn't twist my arm."

"Well. I kind of did."

"I kind of needed it. All of this has just been, um, really sudden, and I'm not sure if it's all sunken in yet. I mean, yesterday morning I was living in Kentucky, student by day, stripper by night. It's just a lot of change all at once."

She does her best to mask her anguished expression at the mention of his job. "I just don't want you to miss out on anything, or regret coming here. Maybe I should have given you more time to decide…"

"Don't put yourself through that, okay? Because if you want me to be really honest, that decision was made months ago. Forget coming  _back_  to Lima; I never wanted to leave in the first place. I have so much unfinished business here. I mean, me and Mercedes were only just getting started…"

He trails off, and Rachel bites her lip. She wants to ask him how he's handling the fact that Mercedes is with Shane now, but maybe she shouldn't—she's hardly ready to have a conversation about Finn. She decides to respect his privacy for now. "What about Florence? Was there anyone you got close with you'll miss?"

"Not really," he shrugs. "I mean, there were a few people who were nice to me, but mostly… I couldn't try out for sports because I had to keep a job, and their music program was, like, nonexistent. Mostly I just focused on my family."

She swallows. "I heard how upset Stevie was about you leaving," she admits.

"Oh."

"I'm… I'm really sorry, Sam."

"Don't be. I chose this. And it's going to be good, right?"

She turns onto Birch Hill Road, and spares him a smile. "I really think it will be. Things can only improve from here, and—oh god, they're waiting for us."

Sam looks ahead—a few houses down, he can see Rachel's dads out in her yard. He's never learned to tell them apart, but… her black dad is mowing the lawn, and her Jewish dad appears to be weeding the garden. "Waiting for us? Looks like chores, to me."

"Trust me; they never do yard work on Saturdays. They just wanted to catch us as soon as we arrived and this is them trying to look busy."

"That's kind of cute," Sam chuckles.

"Kind of embarrassing," Rachel corrects in a mutter, pulling into her driveway. Regardless, she pulls on a happy expression as she gets out of the car. "Hi, Daddies! See? Home safe, just like I promised. Dads, meet Sam."

"Hello, sirs," he says, walking around the car and waving.

"Sir? Ooh, I like him already," her black dad laughs, wiping his hands on his shorts and walking over. Her other dad takes off his gardening gloves and stands up.

"Sam, this is my daddy, Dr. Leroy Berry, and my dad, Hiram Berry, Esquire."

"I love it when she does that," Dr. Berry chuckles. "We sound so fancy. Nice to meet you, Sam." His handshake is firm, but not competitive. Sam likes that.

"Too fancy. Just Leroy and Hiram will be fine, Sam," Mr. Berry— _Hiram_ —says, shaking his hand as well. "Was the drive up okay?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "It was fine. Mr. Evans advised us to take 275 to avoid Cincinnati, and even though it added on some time, I think the traffic would have made it worse if we'd tried a straight shot up 75."

"She wasn't a radio tyrant, was she?" Leroy asks Sam with a grin, and Rachel flushes.

"Daddy!"

"No, sir. We listened to the Beach Boys the whole way up."

"We've been waiting for you to arrive so we could figure out dinner," Hiram says. "Sam, any preferences? Better make some bold decisions now, before your guest privileges stop being a novelty and we get bored of you."

Sam blinks, taken aback. "I—"

"He's kidding," Leroy reassures him, "though we really would appreciate your input about dinner."

"Aren't you going to finish the  _yard?_ " Rachel asks pointedly. Her fathers reluctantly glance back at their forgotten mower and spade.

"Oh, weeeell…"

"She makes a well reasoned argument, Lee," Hiram says. "Rachel, why don't you and Sam pick a menu from the take out drawer while we finish up out here?"

"Traitor," Leroy mutters, turning back to finish the lawn.

* * *

Ultimately, they settle on Thai—which Sam has never tried, but promises he's game for. Her fathers leave to pick up the food with instructions for the two of them to set up Sam's room and pick a movie for tonight in their absence.

"I'm sorry it looks so generic," Rachel says, as she follows him into the guest bedroom with his last duffel bag. "Seeing as this is an extended stay, feel free to decorate however you want."

"I'm not really a decorations kind of a guy," Sam chuckles, but she shakes her head.

"I know that's not true; I stayed in your room last night. We should have taken some posters down before you left; you could have brought them with you."

"Honestly, Rachel, it's fine. Maybe I'll grab a few when I go home for Christmas or something."

"But that's a month from now."

"I'll live," he promises, closing the drawer he'd been filling with clothes. "I'll unpack the rest later; we should pick a movie before your dads get back."

"I hope you don't mind the fact that we're staying in tonight," Rachel says as she leads him back downstairs. "Saturday Night Movies are an old tradition in this house. We had to stop for a while because I'd generally be out with…" her mouth dries out, but she powers through, "with Finn, but we're trying to reinstate it now."

"No worries. Besides, I'm not sure if I'm ready to see anyone else yet. I kind of like the idea of surprising them all at school on Monday."

She stops in front of a large tower filled with DVDs in the living room. "We had a Gene Kelly marathon last weekend, but other than his oeuvre, everything is fair game."

"How about Blues Brothers?" he asks, happy to find a film he likes so quickly in their collection.

"I… everything but that. Please."

Rachel bites her lip, crossing one arm uncomfortably over her midriff. Blues Brothers had been one of her favorite movies to watch with Finn. He loved the car chases and explosions, and she loved the musical numbers, and they'd both appreciated the absurdist humor. She has a lot of memories attached to that film, and she really doesn't want to revisit any of them right now.

To her relief, Sam doesn't comment; just shrugs and keeps examining the tower. "Who's the Tarantino fan?" he asks, reading through the titles.

"Daddy is. We make him watch those alone; Dad and I are too squeamish."

He nods, but then pulls one of the cases off the tower. "A League of Their Own? What's a baseball movie doing in the Berry household?"

"Well, I think my fathers are contractually required to own it on DVD, seeing as both Madonna and Rosie O'Donnell are in it," Rachel giggles. "But really, it's a wonderful film. I appreciate any media representation of strong female characters. And Tom Hanks is an absolute chameleon. He's like the male Meryl Streep."

He grins. "Say that three times fast."

"I'd rather not, thank you."

"So… is this one okay? Can we watch it?"

"Sure, why not?" she says. "I can't remember the last time I saw it from start to finish."

"Cool. I should warn you, though, the ending makes me cry. So you can't make fun of me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she promises.

Before he can say anything else, the front door opens. "Kids? We're back!"

"Excellent timing, Dad; we just made our selection."

"Did you? Fantastic."

Sam follows Rachel into the kitchen, where her dads are already getting out plates and silverware.

"I hope you feel welcome, Sam—after all, you're not really a member of this family until you've participated in Saturday Movie Night," says Leroy.

"He's lying," Rachel whispers, standing up on her tiptoes to put her mouth near Sam's ear. "You're  _actually_  not really a member of this family until you've seen my dad do the whole rap from Super Bass."

Sam raises an eyebrow before subtly pointing a finger at Leroy's turned back. Rachel giggles, shakes her head, and jerks her thumb at Hiram instead. He coughs in an attempt to hold back his laughter, which only makes him choke.

"You okay there, Sam?" Hiram asks, turning around.

"I'm fine. So, ah, you're a Nicki Minaj fan, Mr. B?"

"I'm pelican fly," he confirms with a serious nod and a deadpan expression. "And it's Hiram."

* * *

Turns out, Sam loves Thai food—and true to his word, his eyes are a little red-rimmed when Rachel turns to look at him at the movie's end.

"You okay there, Sam?" Leroy asks with concern, proving that Rachel wasn't the only one who noticed.

"What? Um, yeah, just… a little allergic, I think. Something in my eye."

Her dads share a look; she can tell they think he's missing home. And maybe he is, but at least she was warned that movie also upsets him.

"Well, we're gonna head on up to bed. We get a bit of a late start on Sundays, so don't worry about setting an alarm unless you're a crazy early riser, like this one," Hiram says, nodding at Rachel. She scoffs, and stands up to kiss each of them goodnight.

"Allergic?" she asks with a raised brow, as soon as they've left the room.

"I told you this was going to happen," he mumbles defensively.

"I thought there was no crying in baseball," she jokes in a half-hearted impression of Jimmy Dugan.

"It's not the baseball that gets to me. It's just—they're all old ladies, but they still care so much, and then they start singing that stupid song and I just turn into a three year old. It's not my fault."

She chuckles, and returns to sit next to him on the couch. "I've always wanted to learn more about baseball."

"Why didn't you ask…"  _Finn_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he's made that slip-up too many times already, "one of your guy friends? I thought you've been tight with Puck since you were little kids."

"If by 'tight' you mean he cheated off of my worksheets in Hebrew school and in exchange protected me from older bullies, then sure," she says, but she's smiling in a way that makes him think maybe there was more to it than that. "But the men in my life have always been more football people. Personally, I've never seen the appeal. It's more complicated than chess and Stratego put together, but people hit each other."

"Like wizard chess," Sam jokes, and she chuckles.

"I guess. But baseball's always seemed more… peaceful."

"It is, yeah. George Carlin actually has a whole routine about the differences between baseball and football; remind me to show you on YouTube sometime. A lot of people say baseball is, like… poetic? Walt Whitman said, um…" he closes his eyes and concentrates, trying to call the quotation to mind, "He said it has the  _snap, go, fling of the American atmosphere._ "

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Remember things like that. You're always doing impressions and quoting things and—and speaking in other languages.  _Fictional_  languages, at that."

"It just comes to me. My parents think it's how I compensate for my dyslexia. I'm shit with reading, but if I hear it, it's locked in the vault," he says, tapping lightly at his temple. "It's how I'm able to learn music so fast, too. Mom says it makes me an idiot savant. And then Dad says I'm just an idiot. I could teach you, if you want."

"To remember things?"

"No, baseball. I've been a center fielder since Little League."

"Really? Why didn't you play last year?"

He raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Got sort of sick of the McKinley jock scene, y'know? Not my favorite people. And last spring, um. It wasn't really the best time for me to be away from my family, let alone needing permission slips for away games and money for equipment and stuff."

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. Of course not."

"No, it's cool. Maybe I'll play this year. That might be fun." The corner of his mouth twitches up in a lopsided smile. "And, uh… either way, I can teach you. If you want."

"Would you?"

"Sure. I mean, it's as simple as turning on the game, right? I mean, you kinda missed the World Series, but once the season starts up again in a few months, they'll be on all the time. Besides, if you're gonna be a New Yorker, you've gotta be able to talk about the Yankees."

She shrugs. "I'm not so sure about that. Going off of the little I know about both teams, I've long debated declaring my allegiance as a Mets fan."

His gasp is loud and melodramatic. "Bite your tongue!"

"What can I say? I'm a member of New Directions; I like an underdog."

He shakes his head and smiles. "But you're Rachel Berry."

"Yes? And?" she laughs.

"And, that means you're a born winner. Totally meant to be a Yankees fan."

She blushes as she giggles, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Are you always so complimentary?"

"I should be," he says honestly. "I try to be. And… I'm really sorry it took something like this for us to hang out. We should have been closer a long time ago."

"Well, nothing like second chances, right?" she asks.

He smiles. "Right."

* * *

When she wakes up Sunday morning, Sam's already in the shower—she can tell because she can hear him singing "(You're The) Devil In Disguise" through the wall. She bites back a giggle at the thought of him twisting his hips in the shower, using her loofah as a microphone. As Elvis impersonations go, it's not half bad… which, considering the fact that it's Sam, is unsurprising.

She's missed his voice, and so she sits there in the hallway and listens as he makes his way through "Suspicious Minds," "Stuck on You" and "A Little Less Conversation." The sound of water running through the pipes ceases somewhere during the bridge of "Can't Help Falling In Love," but she just wants to wait until the end of the song before she—

Of course, then he walks out of the steamy bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

"Rachel!" he yelps, jumping back, and she goes bright red at the sight of him.

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to—it's just that you were singing in the shower. You sounded good."

He's flushed, but she's not sure if it's from her presence or from the hot water. "I thought that the walls here were soundproofed."

"Only my bedroom."

"You don't sing in the shower?"

"Of course not; it would interfere with the efficiency of my routine." He smiles at that, and she sighs with relief that she hasn't scared him off by being… herself.

"We've gotta stop meeting like this," he quips, gesturing to his towel, and her cheeks heat back up again.

"Yes, well, now we're even, I guess…?" She trails off and clears her throat. "What are you doing up so early?"

"It's Sunday."

"Yes, so… shouldn't you be sleeping in?"

He frowns slightly. "I have church."

"Oh!" She feels stupid for not remembering. "Do you need a ride?"

"I was just gonna take the bus…"

"That's silly," she decides, reaffixing her smile. "I'll drive you. And I'll talk to my dads about getting another key for my car, but they may not want you driving it often until you're on our car insurance plan."

"That's… fair," he says, looking at her carefully. He fists the towel at his waist. "Um, is it cool if I…?" he trails off, nodding down the hall towards the guest room.

"Of course! Sorry. I'll see you downstairs."

The memory of the sight of his ridiculous abdominal muscles refuses to leave her as she gets dressed.

* * *

They both have cereal for breakfast—skim milk for him, almond milk for her—and are out the door by seven thirty.

"Is it cool if we, like, run some errands after you pick me up?" he asks as they walk out to her car. "I was gonna look around town and see what places were hiring. Maybe see if I could get my old pizza delivery job back."

"Of course."

"Are you sure? I don't mean to, like. Kidnap you."

"I really don't mind. Besides, you'll have Mr. Arnstein all to yourself before you know it."

He blinks at her. "Mr. Arnstein?"

"My car. I named it after the male lead in Funny Girl," she explains. "Mostly so I could say  _Hey Mr. Arnstein, here I am_ every time I drove, but even I got tired of that after a month or so."

Sam laughs. "Hey, don't feel bad. It never really worked out, because we couldn't afford it, but I always dreamed of having a vanity license plate that said NCC-1701." At her confused look, he clarifies, "That's the registration code for the Enterprise."

"And that's… Star Trek?"

"Right!" He grins. "I'll make a geek out of you yet."

She puts on Godspell for the drive over; it's tied with Jesus Christ Superstar for the most Christian music she owns, but JCS feels too controversial.

* * *

He's never been to church alone before in his life.

It's not like he's in a room full of strangers—after all, this was their church when he lived here—but Sunday mornings have always been a family thing. He mills around in back waiting for the Fabrays to come in, so he'll at least have people to sit with, but they never do. Sheepishly, he takes a seat in the last pew.

The absence of his family settles into his chest like a dull ache.

* * *

Sam gets out of church at ten, and they pound the pavement for the rest of the afternoon—by Rachel's estimation, he's left an application at just about every fast food place in Lima.

She knows their situations aren't really comparable, but… she feels guilty. She's never worked for anything a day in her life. She's worked  _at_ things, sure—practiced her craft with dedication, honing her skills—but her dads always paid for lessons and told her that volunteer work looked better on her resume, anyway.

She'd never realized before what a privilege that is.

"Have you considered looking outside of food service?" she asks, when they stop for lunch.

"What, like retail? I'm really not—because of my dyslexia, I can't be a cashier. I need more time than that to look at numbers. Being stared at when I'm trying to do math gets me all flustered, and when I get rushed I mess up more."

She winces empathetically. "I take it you're talking from experience?"

"Yup; I didn't last two days at the Old Navy. So I'm pretty much only qualified for, like… fry cook, ice cream scooper, or delivery guy."

"Don't sell yourself short like that; you're qualified for so much more."

"Yeah?" he asks. "Are there any strip clubs around here?"

Her face falls. "That's not funny, Sam."

"You're right," he agrees, "it's not. …Sorry."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of. It was brave of you, to do that for your family. But that's not your life anymore. Okay?"

He swallows. "Okay."

* * *

That evening, he finally gets some time to himself. He spends his time finishing unpacking, but right as he's getting ready for bed, there's a light knock at the door.

"Sam? It's Rachel."

"Come in," he says, closing his underwear drawer. He gestures at the bed when she peeks her head in, and she sits down gingerly. "What's up?"

"I need to talk to you about school tomorrow."

"What about it?"

"I know it might get a little overwhelming, with everyone wanting to see you, but—there's something I'd like you to keep in mind."

"Yeah?" he goads, when she doesn't elaborate.

"I… I need you to watch out for Finn."

"Is he gonna deck me or something?"

Her brow furrows. "Why would he do that?"

Sam shrugs. "You sort of made it sound like he'll think I've started something with you because we're living together. And I thought you said he was suspended?"

"He was, but his suspension ended just as mine began. It's only glee club he can't participate in. If he sings, Santana won't—and she's a featured soloist. But I don't mean watch out for him as in watch your back. I mean watch  _over_ him."

Sam walks over to sit beside her. "I'm… really not the smartest dude, so you'll have to spell this out for me. Why do I want to be on Team Finn right now?"

She stares at her hands. "Because no one else is. He's made terrible mistakes, but he lost his girlfriend and his step-brother in one stroke; Kurt won't talk to him because of what he did. So I tried to support Kurt in the election, but that obviously backfired, and I just… I know his home life is terrible right now. They're thinking of sending him to Dalton."

"But why should I care? He deserves it."

She shakes her head, trying to gather her thoughts. "Finn's not an intolerant person; he just… has no concept of the kind of impact his words can have. But he won't learn to be better unless someone teaches by example."

"Won't that just teach him he can get away with whatever he wants?"

"I'm not saying I want to get back together with him. Of course his actions have consequences. But you can't just turn off how much you care for someone, no matter how badly they may screw up."

"Hey, no worries. Believe me, I know all about that feeling," he assures her.

"I'm sorry; I know it's a lot to ask, but…"

"No, it's fine. I'll talk to him, I guess. But the whole point of me coming here was for glee, and if everyone else gets pissed at me being seen with him, I can't be Mr. Savior Guy."

"I understand that; do whatever you feel is appropriate. It's just that… you've always been such an excellent ally. And a good friend. He could use that."

Sam stares at her a moment before shaking his head in disbelief, laughing a little to himself.

"What?" she asks, self-conscious.

"Nothing. You're just… really one of a kind, you know? You're awesome."

"Not awesome enough, apparently," she mumbles. "I just can't believe… I should have taught him better. I should have been paying more attention. How could he be around me so much and not learn these things unless I'm just…?"

"Rachel. There is nothing wrong with you. Finn's issues are his, okay, not yours. You can't teach people to be as accepting as you are any more than you can teach them to sing as well as you can. All you can do is set an example, and care. And any time you need a reminder that you do that—you can just come right across the hall. Because I'm living here now, and that only happened because you cared."

"Well. That and I wanted to win," she adds sheepishly, but she's smiling.

"Last I heard, wanting to win never hurt anybody's chances."

"I suppose not. Well—thank you, Sam. I'll let you get some sleep," she says, standing up. "Dad arranged everything with the car insurance company while we were out, so you're all set to take Mr. Arnstein in the morning; you can use my key for now."

"Wow! Is Rachel Berry going to actually sleep in for once?"

"We'll see," she laughs, and closes the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who's added this story to their alerts and favorites since I posted the last chapter; I know it's been a long wait. I also wanted to say that, as much as I have the major events mapped out for this fic, there are still plenty of details that need filling in. So if you have any requests—friendships you want to see developed or touched upon, a plot point you just REALLY WANT TO SEE HAPPEN… let me know, and I'll see what I can do. This is very much a season three fix it, for me, so I'd like to fix as much as I can.


	4. Old Classmates, Please Drop All Your Pens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord knows if anyone will read this after a mortifying six month hiatus, but I have not abandoned this story or you, my dear readers!

Sam steps out of Mr. Arnstein the next morning to the dulcet tones of Kurt Hummel's screeching.

"Rachel, you  _know_ you're not allowed on school grounds until the end of the week, do you have any idea how much trouble— _Sam?_ "

"Heya, Kurt," he says, waving sheepishly, thoughts of tracking down Mercedes before the first bell evaporating; Kurt's great, but he's terrible at ending conversations.

"I—wha—what are you doing here?" Kurt stutters, hand coming up to hover near his mouth with shock. "And why are you driving Rachel's car?"

"Um, do you want the long version or the short version?"

"Any version!"

Sam gives a small grin. "Rachel came and got me; I'm here to save glee club."

"You moved back to Lima?"

"Uh, yeah, kinda," he says, walking towards the school; Kurt falls into step next to him. "Just me, though; the rest of my family's still in Florence. I'm staying with Rachel 'til the end of the year."

"I need more details than that!"

"It's kind of a long story, dude—I have to get my schedule and locker assignment from Figgins and talk to Miss Pillsbury about the, um. The _alarmingly sudden nature of my transfer,_ " he says, recalling the exact words from the voicemail she'd left with the Berrys last night. "But I can talk to you about it at lunch?"

"Blaine and I were going to go off-campus for lunch, but we can reschedule."

Sam pauses, baffled. "Blaine goes here now?"

He opens the main doors for Kurt, who gives him a half-sympathetic, half-alarmed look. "Honey, what rock have you been living under?"

"Kentucky," Sam grumbles as he follows Kurt inside, because he doesn't really have a better answer. He'd never got back into the habit of checking his Facebook since he regained computer access; he hadn't even missed it all that much. But now the idea of being totally blindsided by the things he's missed makes him nervous.

But, like. It's  _Lima._ How much could have changed in three months?

"Well, in any case—welcome back, Sam."

"Thanks. And hey, sorry about losing the election or whatever; Rachel told me you really deserved it."

Kurt's lips twitch. "Yes, well. It's—it is what it is," he says, voice terse.

"Are you guys cool about everything? She told me you were fighting before, but like… it takes some serious loyalty to get suspended for someone." If there's one thing Sam's started to get a really good idea of in the past few days, it's this: "Rachel's a good friend."

"I know. And, in answer to your question—we're working it out. I was planning on coming over after school either today or tomorrow to talk to her."

"That would be—she'd like that," Sam decides. "So, see you at lunch?"

"I'll text you if I can't make it. Good luck today," Kurt says, placing his hand briefly on Sam's shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

Sam hops on the balls of his feet for a moment to redistribute the weight of his backpack, then starts off in the opposite direction, towards the front office.

And then he has to stop because his world kind of stops.

* * *

For the first time in years, Rachel Berry wakes up not to the sounds of Break My Stride, but to the harsh buzz of her phone vibrating against her bedside table. Groaning, she sits up and rubs blearily at her eyes before checking the time—a little after 8 am. Hardly sleeping in to anyone else's standards, but she feels massively disoriented all the same.

Oh, right. Text message.

She yawns and picks up her phone—Sam. She meant to get up and say goodbye to him this morning. She swipes her thumb to unlock the text.

It reads,  **Y didnt U tell me Mercedes has a bf?!**

Suddenly, she's wide awake.

* * *

Sam has just enough time to read Rachel's response—a short  **I'm so sorry; I thought you knew** —before he's called into Principal Figgins' office, and he's glad he, like, went to this school before and knows how it works, because there's no way he could listen to anything Mr. Figgins is saying right now. His head is reeling. Mercedes and  _Shane?_

(The words he'd taken for granted on Friday night slowly creep into the back of his brain to taunt him. _"What would you say if I said I'm going to be at McKinley on Monday?" "I'd say you're crazy. And that I have a boyfriend."_

He'd thought she'd meant him. God, how could he have been so  _stupid_?)

"Everything you need should be in here," Mr. Figgins says at last, handing him a pile of papers. Sam didn't hear a single word he said. "You don't have to go to World History today; Ms. Pillsbury is expecting you, you'll spend the rest of first period with her." When Sam doesn't move, he waves his right hand regally and says, "Off you go, Samuel."

Sam stumbles like a drunk as he makes his way down the hallway towards the Guidance office.  _Shane?_  Seriously,  _that guy?_  It's not as bad as if Mercedes were dating Azimio or Rick the Stick or something, but like… Sam has a list a mile long of people he'd rather see Mercedes date than Shane Tinsley. (Well, no, he doesn't, but he could write one super fast.) Sam's heard way too much locker talk from that guy to ever think he'd make a good boyfriend to  _anyone_ , let alone Mercedes. He's just not a great dude.

How did this  _happen?_

Even if he and she had to stay broken up, Sam thought Mercedes had better taste than to go for Shane Tinsley. He knows she doesn't need him to be her, like, guardian or anything, but just… he doesn't understand what the hell they think they have in common. (Except for the one glaringly obvious thing, and the idea that that might have really mattered to her kind of makes him sick.)

"Sam? Are you planning to come in, or do you just really like my new motivational posters?" Ms. Pillsbury asks good-naturedly from inside her office. He shakes his head to make himself stop staring at her wall and walks through the door.

"Sorry, I'm… I was just…" He collapses into the chair in front of her desk, tosses the papers Figgins gave him onto the floor, and puts his head into his hands. "Today is not a good day," he groans.

"Well that was fast." Ms. Pillsbury leans forward with a kind expression despite her snarky comment, giving him her full attention. "You look nice and slushie-free to me, so you're going to have to help me out. Do you miss your old school?"

"I miss my old  _life,"_  Sam says. He knows that's super dramatic, but it's honestly how he feels. And like, yeah, this meeting was supposed to just be some fluff thing he had to do because it was the rules, but he's not gonna feel bad about feeling bad. As fate would have it, he actually needs guidance this morning. At Ms. Pillsbury's expression, he explains, "I thought that when I got back I could pick up where I left off with Mercedes, but she's dating Shane Tinsley. I just—I just saw them in the hallway. She didn't see me, but I saw her, and, like—they're definitely dating." He thinks about someone who  _wasn't_  dating Mercedes touching her that way, and adds darkly, "They  _better_  be dating."

Ms. Pillsbury's eyes soften. "Oh, Sam, I'm sorry. You had no idea?"

"None." Well, now that he knows, he can tell that she tried to warn him on Friday, but that doesn't count.

"Well, hold on, let me see what I've got here," Ms. Pillsbury says, swiveling in her chair to look behind her. After a moment of contemplation, she selects three pamphlets from her stand and slides them across the table for him to look at:  **So You're Dating a Two-Timin' Ho** ;  **How to Key Cars and Not Get Caught: What To Do When Your Ex Wins the Breakup** , and  **I'm Too Depressed to Even Open This Pamphlet**.

Despite himself, Sam lets out a laugh. "Thanks Ms. P, but I think I'd rather just talk about it? If that's okay?"

She gives him a small smile. "Okay. Give me some context. Did you and Mercedes talk a lot when you were in Kentucky?"

He sighs, defeated. "No. Not really."

"Do you feel like she lead you on?"

He rubs his temples. "No, it wasn't like—no. Apparently it was all in my head, and that's why it sucks. I know we lost touch and I know it was dumb to think she'd wait for me, but I guess I thought if she started going out with some other guy she'd at least give me a heads up." She probably did, he thinks, even if only indirectly. It's probably all over Facebook. But for the second time this morning, he can't bring himself to care. He spent most of his free time in Florence stripping for money so his family wouldn't starve, so he finds it really hard to regret not wasting a bunch of his time on his computer. And he thought… he thought he would have deserved at least a text or something.

"How did you leave things, when you moved away?" Ms. Pillsbury asks, resting her chin on her steepled fingers. He's honestly surprised she's taking him seriously, but in a good way.

"Well, I mean, we broke up, but like… we broke up because I was leaving. Neither of us wanted to. Or at least…." he frowns, because he'd never had to doubt this before. "Or at least, I didn't want to. Maybe that was just an excuse for her."

"Do you want to talk to Mercedes about this?"

"No," he blurts out immediately, but then he considers it. "I don't know. Maybe. Not today, though. I'm too pissed off."

"Are you?"

He blinks. "Well, yeah."

"You don't seem angry to me," Ms. Pillsbury points out. "You seem sad."

After a moment, he hesitantly ventures, "Do I have to pick just one?"

"Of course not. I just find it interesting that you'd characterize yourself primarily as being angry when so far you've been quite reasonable about it. Just blue."

Sam thinks about it. "I guess maybe I am more sad. I dunno. I don't hate her or anything, I just… I guess I feel cheated?" Unbidden, images from earlier of them totally wrapped up in each other flash in his head. "She didn't even see me," he repeats softly.

"Does it make you regret coming back?"

"No," he says after a moment, "I'm glad I know. I wish I knew before, but I'm glad I know now. And it doesn't change why I'm here."

"And why are you here?"

It sounds silly when he says it to her, but it's the best he's got: "To save glee club?"

"But what about you?"

"Am I… here to save me?" He doesn't understand the question.

"Well, think about it. Maybe you are. When we talked to your parents, they said the biggest factor in allowing you to stay with the Berry family is that they wanted you to have a chance to have your childhood."

"I'm not a  _child,_ " Sam corrects, peeved. "Kids don't have to see their ex-girlfriends shoving their tongue down some dude's—"

"Your young and reckless high school years, then." Ms. Pillsbury finishes, wrinkling her nose at the thought. She pumps out some hand sanitizer and massages it into her fingers. "But where was I… oh. It's very noble of you to want to save glee, Sam. But you're only responsible for yourself. Don't put the world on your shoulders, okay?"

"Okay."

She smiles at him. "And, while I'm on the subject: how's living with the Berrys, so far? Everything good?"

"Yeah. Rachel's dads are great, and she's actually way cooler than I think I realized. We're having fun."

Ms. Pillsbury leans in conspiratorially. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but—I think it's very brave, what she did for Kurt."

Sam grins. "Me too. Oh, um, she wanted me to ask: can I bring home her homework every day?"

"I can have that arranged; just swing by here to pick it up after school, okay?"

"Okay." The bell rings suddenly, and Sam jumps a little in his seat. He'd totally lost track of time. "Guess I gotta go to, um…" He looks down at the schedule he'd dropped dramatically on the floor, "Gym. Thanks, um—thanks for meeting with me. I'm actually really glad I had to come."

"My door is always open," she says as he picks up his things and slings his backpack over his shoulder.

When he gets back into the hallway, he finds that he has like a million missed texts from Rachel asking if he's okay, if he wants her to talk to Mercedes, if he needs anything, if there's any way she can help or make it up to him.

**Its fine** , he texts her back, but when he sees how short and kind of jerk-like it sounds, he adds,  **saw ms pillsbry. Im ok.**

He heads to the locker rooms apprehensively, because now he feels like there's no telling what else has gone crazy in his absence. Blaine waves to him from down the hall as he approaches the gym, and like—he totally forgot that was even a thing after seeing Mercedes, but what the hell? Is nothing sacred? (Not that he has anything against Blaine, but the kid belongs in a blazer.)

Nobody from glee seems to be in his gym class, and that's fine with him. He doesn't think he could take any more insane revelations this morning; he needs a breather. Coach Beiste is really happy to see him, though, and that kind of makes him feel better. He'd actually missed her.

"Coulda used you in the big game against Carmel last weekend," she says as she marches the class towards the football field; apparently they're running laps today.

"Thanks, but I think my football days are over." That kind of stress is the last thing he needs. But now that they're talking about it, he remembers what he told Rachel the other night. "I might go out for baseball in the spring, though."

"You're a ballplayer?" Coach Beiste asks, before looking him up and down. He swallows uncomfortably. Ever since he moved he hates being examined the way she's examining him now, but hey, at least this time he has his clothes on. (Dimly, he remembers how much he used to enjoy showing off his body, how much he obsessed over it, how much it motivated him, and like… was he ever seriously that shallow?) "I can see it. What position do you play?"

"Center field."

"Can you hit?"

"I mean, I haven't really played in a while, so…"

"Well. Come find me in the spring, then," she says, before striding forward to the front of the line and blowing her whistle. "Okay! I want a mile out of each of you; no excuses!"

* * *

Sam's in the middle of his fourth lap when he notices movement under the bleachers. He's got no one to talk to and he's left the rest of his class pretty thoroughly in his dust, so he pulls off to the side to investigate. All it takes is the smell of smoke and the flash of a lighter flaring to life for him to speed back up again, because he has no intention of getting his ass kicked and the Skanks mean serious business, but then—but then he thinks—

_No._

Is he in freaking  _Bizarro World?_

He glances over his shoulder to check if he's being watched, but Coach Beiste seems to be explaining to a group of freshman how to do a hogtie, if her hand movements are anything to go by, so he figures he's got a sec.

There's no use in trying to be sneaky, but he can't bring himself to just walk up to these girls, especially if he saw what he thinks he saw. He takes each step carefully as he inches off the track and behind the bleachers, trying to use the metal framework to hide himself.

"Hey," one of them says—he thinks her name is Ronnie—"Who's over there?"

He sighs. So much for being a ninja. "Sorry, I'm not trying to get you in trouble, I just—"

"Sam?!"

"Quinn?! It  _is_  you. I don't—what happened to you?"

He watches her face carefully—oh my god, does she have a  _nose ring_?—and he can tell she's trying to hide how surprised she is, trying to school her face back into nonchalance and disinterest. "Life happened to me," she says, and the gruff tone of her voice makes him think that the smoking isn't new to her. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you from the track and I wasn't sure—"

She rolls her eyes. "No, I mean, what are you doing  _here_? Shouldn't you be in Kentucky or some shit?"

He shakes his head even though yes, he should be in Kentucky, because Quinn has pink hair and Quinn is swearing at him and nothing about his life makes any sense at all. "I transferred back."

"Why the hell would anyone want to come back here?" one of the other ones, Sheila, asks. He's not sure if she's asking him or the other Skanks, but he figures it's only polite to answer—and he's not about to risk not being polite to these people. He doesn't hit girls, but he knows for a fact these girls would hit him.

"Um. Rachel came and got me. Because of… everything that's happened."

There's a moment of total utter silence, and then Quinn bursts into hysterical laughter. The other Skanks join in, but they can't match her level of apparent delight.

"Oh my god," Quinn gasps, tears actually forming at the corners of her eyes as she giggles. "Oh my god, she took me seriously."

"What?"

"She  _went and got you_. Oh my god. Oh my god, I was  _kidding_."

"Did you…?" He feels dumb for even asking, but it sounds like she's saying… "Was this your idea?"

" _No_ ," Quinn chokes, "I just—wow. That is priceless. That is… that is perfect." She turns to the other Skanks, and says, "Meet Matt Rutherford."

Suddenly the others are laughing just as hard as Quinn's been, and Sam is totally lost. Who the heck is Matt Rutherford?

"I don't get what's so funny. Glee is important to me, and I want us to win. Don't you?"

Quinn gives him a look that is at once judgmental and pitying. "Oh, wow, are you behind on the times. I'm not  _in_  glee, Sam."

He's not the brightest dude ever, but even he can do that math. "But if you're not in glee, we don't compete."

"Bummer," she says, rolling her eyes.

It's not like Quinn being a bitch is new to him, really, but there's something completely different about her tone now. He looks her up and down, sees the way she steels herself against his gaze, and he just… he has to ask again. "Quinn. Seriously. What  _happened_  to you?"

"She already answered your question, Donkey Lips," The Mack finally pipes up, and she pushes off from the support she was leaning against to walk towards him menacingly. He'd appreciate the reference to Salute Your Shorts is she wasn't, y'know, insulting him. "Don't make her repeat herself. If you've got a problem with that, you've got a problem with us."

"I don't have a problem, I just—" He turns to look at Quinn. "Are you… okay? Because if you want to talk, or whatever, I—"

"If I want to  _talk or whatever_ , I'll talk with my _friends_ ," Quinn says harshly, gesturing to the other Skanks, who nod their approval. From across the field, the bell signaling the end of the period rings, and Sam cranes his neck to find that the rest of his gym class is nowhere in sight. "Time for all the good little boys to do what they're told and go to class. Run along," she quips, dismissing him.

He's gonna be so late now; he should have left the field ten minutes ago so he'd have time to change. As he walks away he gives Quinn one last look over his shoulder, but it's like he was never there. Like he was just an annoying fly and, now that she's squashed him, she can move on with her life.

Seeing as it's his first day back, he decides that he can probably get away with going to class late; he'd rather change than have to go to Geology in his gym clothes. They smell like smoke now anyway, and he doesn't want to get in trouble.

Before he leaves the locker room, he texts Rachel,  **just saw Q. whats happening whats happening**

* * *

Rachel's on her elliptical when she receives her next text from Sam, but once she reads it, she has to slow down and step off—she can't maintain her momentum and feel as guilty as she does at the same time.

She woefully under-prepared him for school today, she sees that now. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

**I'm so sorry**  she says again, because she is, and because she doesn't have anything else to say to him. She'd been on her elliptical for the past hour trying to work off her distress at failing to realize Sam didn't know about Mercedes and Shane, but she couldn't outrun her problems on a stationary machine, and she can't outrun them now.  **Was she mean, or just rude?**  she asks Sam instead, because even this new version of Quinn comes in degrees. She just hopes Sam wasn't tossed into the fire in his very first encounter.

**Kinda both?**  she gets back after a few minutes.  **Ill call u @ lunch**.

Rachel sighs, and runs and hand through her hair, now damp with sweat. She's not exactly looking forward to that conversation.

* * *

The idea of getting to lunch—so he can check in with Rachel, and so Kurt can give him an idea of what the hell someone put in the water around here that made everyone go off the deep end—is the only thing that propels Sam through the next four periods. He barely even listens in class, let alone takes notes. He knows that letting himself be distracted on his first day when he's already behind is a terrible idea, but there's just way too much stuff in his head and not nearly enough room for it all; there's no way a pre-calc lecture is going to stick.

Finally, the bell rings at the end of Spanish, and he practically sprints to the door. His first stop is his new locker, because he only needs like half the binders he's carrying, and it hits him as he puts in his combination for the first time that he'll have to, like, re-decorate his locker and stuff. He never cleaned out his old one in Kentucky.

Great. Now he's thinking about home.

Everything from the day just hits him all at once, and he takes a sec to rest his head against the cool metal and just process it. He thinks about what his parents said, and how he snapped at Ms. Pillsbury this morning for calling him a child. He meant it then, but honestly? He feels pretty freaking lost right now. He could kind of use his mom and dad.

After a minute he picks himself up and opens his eyes, because he doesn't have time for this. He's torn between heading to the cafeteria to find Kurt and going out to the courtyard so he'll have enough cell reception and privacy to call Rachel, and those few moments of indecision… well, they kind of alter the course of the rest of his day.

Just as he finally chooses to turn left and go outside, several things happen at once. Finn turns the corner and starts walking towards him—which makes him nervous even though it shouldn't, because he has done nothing wrong—a whole bunch of Cheerios start clustering a few lockers down from him, and in the distance, Quinn comes out of the closest girls' bathroom, followed by the rest of the Skanks. He has a feeling they just swirley'd some poor kid for her lunch money.

What happens next seems to Sam to be almost in slow motion.

Out of nowhere, Brittany emerges from the gaggle of cheerleaders, her trademark smile nowhere to be seen. She's holding an extra large Big Gulp container in her hand, and about a fifth of a second before it happens, Sam realizes what's about to go down.

The second the bright blue slushie hits Finn's face, Quinn and Sam lock eyes. Like she's challenging him. He can't tell if she wants him to move or to stay put, but her look means something, and he can't just—he can't just do nothing. The world falls back into real time, and the sound—which had been sucked out of the hallway—comes back all at once.

"That was for my girlfriend," Brittany says dully to a sputtering Finn. Then she just walks away, as if nothing happened. Santana, Sam notes, is nowhere to be seen. For all he knows, she isn't even in school today.

Finn is just standing there, dripping, making surprised scoffing noises. Sam remembers what that's like. He wonders when the last time Finn got slushied was. He wonders if Finn's ever been slushied at all.

Without even thinking about it, his feet begin to move, carrying him towards the growing blue puddle on the floor. (Blue. Just like his first. But he doesn't think he'll try and hit on Finn in Na'vi today.) "C'mon, dude, let's get you cleaned up," he mutters under his breath, not trying to draw any more attention than they already have. It's a testament to how shocked he is that he doesn't even seem to register Sam's presence as they move down the hallway and into the guy's bathroom.

"Did that really just happen?" Finn asks dazedly as Sam steers him towards a sink.

"Seemed pretty real to me."

Finn blinks when he sees Sam's reflection in the mirror, and turns around to look at him for the first time. "Wait. Sam? What are you doing here?"

"Long story. Look, you should probably start rinsing that off, unless you want it to stain." He knows he had nothing to do with this, but he feels bad when he remembers that Rachel saw this coming. She warned him to watch out this, and he let her down. "Do you want to trade shirts with me or something?"

"What? No, I'm not gonna take your shirt," Finn says robotically. After a second, he asks, "Can slushies give you brain freeze even when you don't drink them? Because I kind of feel like that."

"Been there. Was this your first?"

"No, but it hasn't happened since sophomore year. I forgot how much it sucks." He leans down into the sink and starts washing his face and hair. Sam watches him awkwardly from his position against the wall; he doesn't know how to help, but he'd feel guilty if he just left. His phone buzzes in his pocket—probably Rachel wondering if he's still planning to call her—but he ignores it. Without warning, Finn whips his head back up, like a thought just struck him. "And I mean, what gives? I thought Brittany was  _nice_."

"She is nice," Sam says simply. "But she's also super loyal, and, like. You outed her girlfriend."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Finn asks, hands spread wide in his confusion. "I didn't say anything anyone didn't know."

"That's not really true, though, and it wasn't your place to say it. Like. What if it had been Kurt?"

"Everyone knows Kurt's gay."

"But you didn't always."

"Yeah, we did. Why do you think we used to throw him in the dumpster?"

Finn seems to realize that's a horrible thing to admit to about a half a second after it leaves his mouth, but it doesn't stop Sam from shouting, "You did  _what?_ " He'd had no idea.

"I was dumb and I didn't know any better!" Finn explains defensively. "And I tried to be nice about it. I'd hold his jacket so it wouldn't get junk all over it. Puck was way worse, and nobody's slushying  _him._ "

Sam just shakes his head, trying to make sense of all of this. It's barely after one o'clock and this is the worst, most confusing day he's had in a long, long time. "Look. Dude. I don't know what the hell used to happen in this school, but you  _know_ that's not okay. And this is the same thing. What you did to Santana—it was dumb, and you didn't know any better. But the reason people keep nagging you about it is because you keep saying it wasn't ignorant and mean and it was."

Finn looks down at the blue streak on his chest and sighs. "I'll never be able to fix this." Looking totally lost, Finn backs away from the sink and sits down against the wall in front of the radiator. Sam doesn't even want to think about what might be on the floor, but he can't just leave Finn like this, so he crosses the room to sit down next to him.

"I don't get what you don't get," Sam says simply, because he doesn't. It seems pretty clear to him; his parents raised him to take people at their word, and to let them make decisions on their own time. But then, they also taught him that God loves everyone equally, and it seems like all the kids in Lima got some seriously mixed messages about what that was supposed to mean.

"It wasn't a secret that Santana and Brittany are together or whatever. They'd make out at parties all the time. They did that pinky-holding thing. Like, they even went on a date with me once."

Sam blinks. "Both of them?"

"Yeah. At the same time. But it was totally just for the two of them, and it's always been like that. So I don't get how telling Santana she was being a coward by not saying what's true is so bad. How is that not right? I feel like that's right."

Sam sighs, and runs both hands through his hair. "Okay. Can you tell me  _exactly_  what you said? Like, as close as you remember."

"We got into this big fight over this thing Mr. Schue had us do, this mash-off, and she was just being a total bitch to me: calling me fat, saying I had no talent. But it's Santana, so I know she's just saying it because she hates everyone because she, like, hates herself. So I told her she should come out of the closet because she's ruining everyone's lives trying to pretend she isn't in love with Brittany. She's so scared of people hating her for the right reasons that she doesn't care if they hate her for the wrong ones. Isn't that a shitty way to live?"

Sam's kind of surprised at how insightful that is, but then, Finn's known Santana a lot longer than he has. And they both dated her, so maybe she just really is that obvious. "That's exactly what you said?"

"Not, like, word for word, but yeah."

"In front of everybody?"

"In front of  _some people_. It was in the hallway. I don't know."

Sam wonders how much of this Rachel has heard; he wonders if it would make a difference. "You're right," he allows, "it is a shitty way to live. But you don't get to decide how Santana lives her life."

"But—"

"It would be different if Brittany was a guy, or if being gay were okay, but in this school, it's not. It's not safe. Kurt had to leave,it got so bad."

"But it  _is_  okay to be gay," Finn says, frustrated. "I never said it's not."

Sam frowns at him. "Yeah, you did. Remember? When I first got into glee, and Kurt wanted to do a duet with me, you told me not to do it. That it would make me look gay, and everyone would think I liked Kurt, and that would make us both targets."

"I was trying to protect you!"

"Yeah. I know you were," Sam sighs. "But that's why this sucks. I'm not gay, dude. Santana is. And you should have protected  _her_." Groaning, Sam shifts onto his knees and stands back up, before wordlessly offering Finn a hand. "Do you get it now?"

"I guess. I don't know. I think so," Finn says as he gets to his feet, but he's got a thoughtful look on his face, so Sam hopes something got through to him. After another helpless glance at the slushy stain on his shirt, Finn asks quietly, "Sam, why are you here?"

There's no use sugar-coating it. "Rachel came and got me to take over your spot in glee, because there's no way everyone will forgive you in time for Sectionals."

Finn stares at the floor. "Yeah. I thought it might be something like that. Is Rachel…" Finn's lips twist, like he's trying to keep a hold on himself. "Is she, like, okay? I know Kurt's mad at her. I mean, he's mad at me too, but—I don't know. I think about her like all the time."

"She's okay. She doesn't like talking about it, but… she asked me to talk to you, if that means anything."

"She did?"

"Yeah. She was worried something like this might happen. She told me to look out for you."

Suddenly it looks like Finn's trying not to cry. "Do you think… do you think I still have a chance with her?"

"I have no idea, dude. But I know you'll never get her back if you don't figure out how to fix everything you did, and why you can't do it again."

"Oh," Finn whispers. "I… how do I do that?"

"I don't know. But it'll probably take more work than just singing about it in glee club."

They both jump a little when the bell interrupts their moment. "Shit, is that the time?" Finn asks, double checking it against his phone. "Crap. You shouldn't have—you didn't have to—" Finn sighs. "Thanks for, like, checking on me and stuff. Sorry I made you miss lunch."

"It's not a big deal," Sam says. He's kind of used to skipping meals, even if he hasn't done it in a while. "Are you sure you don't want to trade shirts?"

Finn gives him a look. "After today I probably owe you, like, every shirt I own. I think I deserved this. See you around, man."

_Huh_. Sam thinks as he watches Finn walk out the door.  _I think that's progress._

* * *

Any amount of coping Sam'd managed to convince himself he'd done with the Mercedes situation is thrown completely out the window when he walks into English and sees her sitting in the back row, examining her nails.

He should have skipped this period. He should have responded to the missed calls from Rachel or the texts from Kurt and Blaine. He should have talked to Ms. Pillsbury more. He should have stayed in the bathroom with Finn all day. He should have stayed home.

He cannot be here right now.

"Mr. Evans, we're glad to have you back, but please take a seat, class is about to start," Mr. Andrews says, and then Mercedes looks up and sees him, and just—nope. Nope, nope, nope, he cannot do this today.

He drops into the first seat he reaches—in the front row, where he  _never_  sits—and stares straight ahead at the board.

Of course, then he hears shuffling and movement behind him, and Mercedes' voice in his ear, hissing, "Oh my god, I thought you were _kidding_."

"Nope, I really came back. Didn't Kurt tell you?" he snips back, despite his better judgment. He shouldn't be talking to her. He doesn't want to talk to her.

"We don't have any classes together this year, and he was having lunch with Blaine, and oh my god, that's  _so_  not even important right now. Why didn't  _you_  tell me?"

"I thought I did!" Sam mutters. "And you don't have any right telling me what I should have told you."

"What?"

"I  _saw_  you! You and—and freaking Shane Tinsley."

Yeah, and I told you—"

"I thought you meant me!" Sam says, much louder than he meant to, and the rest of the room gets quiet.

"Fascinating as this is," Mr. Andrews says drolly, "It has nothing to do with The Great Gatsby. Back to your usual seat, Miss Jones."

Sam hasn't read any of The Great Gatsby, so even if he'd wanted to get anything out of the class discussion, he still would have been lost. Instead he sits and stews, thoughts swirling in an endless miserable pattern.

He's been trying so hard not to think about how he thought this day was going to go, how she'd be so excited to see him, how they'd both skip lunch and spend the time making out under the bleachers or something. Seeing Mercedes was like the one thing he was supposed to actually be able to count on and look forward to, and now…

Now he can't stop fantasizing about angrily calling her out in glee with some kind of vindictive break up power anthem. Which is  _so_ dumb, but it's like the only thing keeping him sane right now. He's torn between "Cry Me A River" (which he'd love to sing because JT is something of a personal hero, but doesn't really fit, unfortunately) and some sort of angry dude rock version of Adele's "Someone Like You" when he suddenly remembers an old Jimmy Eat World b-side Artie played for him once. He can't recall anything about it but the chorus, but he can't deny that it's perfect in his daydream. He'd borrow the electric guitar from Robbie in jazz band, and they'd set up the laser lights in the choir room just so they could flash red as he screamed out the lyrics, right in Mercedes' face:  _"THE WORLD DON'T SPIN WITHOUT YOU, I'M AMAZED YOU'RE STANDING STILL. TAKING MY KISSES BACK, WHOA, I WANT MY KISSES BACK FROM YOU."_

"Sam?" Mr. Anderson asks, jolting him out of his imaginings, and he flinches.

"Um. Yeah?"

"Miss Jones just made the very interesting point that Daisy is right to choose Tom over Gatsby in the end, despite their personal history and Tom's affair—that she has an obligation to her marriage, and that even though Gatsby doesn't like it, the onus is on him to respect it." He smiles wanly at Mercedes, and amends, "Well, I paraphrased a bit. Call it morbid curiosity, but I was wondering if you had enough insight for a rebuttal?"

"Do I…?" Sam asks dazedly, and he hates that he has to ask. (Hates that it makes him sound stupid. Hates that he probably is.)

"Do you have anything to say to that?" Mr. Andrews rephrases.

He doesn't. He hasn't even read the book, and whatever his beef with Mercedes is, he doesn't want to talk about it in front of the whole class. So he goes with the one thing he knows: "Well, I mean. The book is called The Great Gatsby, not The Great Tom. He's the main character, so even if he's wrong we have to think he's right." He thinks he heard Joss Whedon say something like that in an interview or something. Or maybe he was saying that main characters are always wrong, or you have to let them be wrong, or… god, Sam can't  _think_.

"A fascinating theory," Mr. Andrews says, eyebrows raised, and Sam sighs with relief. "What do you think, you guys? Does Gatsby's position as the titular character give him privileges the other characters don't get?"

Totally spent, Sam sinks into his desk, rests his head in his arms, and waits for this day to end.

* * *

Last period is Home Ec, thank god. Plus side is that he has it with Brittany, who's awesome; downside is that she already has a partner, so he's stuck with the chick from the school orchestra who plays violin for them in glee sometimes, whose name he cannot remember for the life of him. It's not so bad, though. The assignment is to make egg drop soup, and theirs comes out actually edible.

At the end of class, Brittany walks over to him and offers holds out two fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies on a napkin. "Here. I made these for you."

He blinks at her. "What, like, just now?"

"Yeah. They had all the ingredients."

"But the assignment was to make soup."

"I know, but you looked like you needed cookies," she says with a shrug. She leans in closer and adds, "Last year when I had to see San going around with Karofsky, I always kind of wished someone would give me a cookie. So I thought I'd make some for you. I actually made more, but the rest are for Lord Tubbington." They're alone in the classroom now; everyone else ran out to get their stuff and go home.

"Thanks Britt, that's… really nice of you. And, um, you should know—I talked to Finn about what happened earlier."

Brittany's face instantly becomes a steely mask, and he almost jumps back at the sight of it. He's seen Quinn do that trick, but never Brittany—maybe it's just something they learn in Cheerios. But he doesn't think he's ever seen Brittany this pissed, ever. "He deserved it," she says.

"I know he did. But I think maybe now  _he_  knows he did, too." He hopes.

"Whatever," Brittany says dismissively, but then the cloud lifts and she's back to her usual self. "So? Are you going to try the cookies or not?"

"Oh! Sure," he says, and stuffs one in his mouth. It only takes about a chew and a half before he realizes she must have gotten a bit… creative with the recipe. "What's in this?" he chokes, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"I switched the amounts of salt and sugar; it makes them taste like chocolate covered pretzels, right?"

"Totally," he says, swallowing uneasily.

"Walk you to glee?"

"Thanks, but I have to stop by the Guidance office first. I'll meet up with you, okay?"

"'Kay," she says with a smile, before walking out the door. He waits until she's halfway down the hall before he tosses the other cookie in the trash. (Oh man, oh man, poor choice of words; why would he think about tossing cookies?)

* * *

Picking up Rachel's homework from Ms. Pillsbury only takes like thirty seconds, but Sam tries to stretch it out as much as possible. He was looking forward to glee this morning, but now he's pretty much dreading it; after everything that's happened, he just doesn't trust it at all. At this point, he feels like he wouldn't be surprised if Artie got up out of his chair and started dancing. (Is that a jerk thing to think? He feels like that might be a jerk thing to think.)

He's pretty sure everyone knows he's back by now, but he still hesitates at the door before walking in.

"There he is!" Mr. Schue says excitedly as he enters. "Man of the hour!"

"Hey guys. Um, thanks," Sam mumbles as they clap at his mere presence. It's all he can do not to look at Mercedes; instead he seeks out the eyes of those he hasn't seen yet today—Tina and Mike, Puck and Artie. He thinks his hunch from this afternoon was right, because Santana isn't here either, and there's one face that's completely unfamiliar to him.

"Rory," the kid introduces himself in a distinctive Irish brogue Sam immediately wants to try out for himself. "Nice to meet you."

"Uh, yeah."

"So what do you think?" Mr. Schue asks. "A celebratory solo to kick off your triumphant return?"

All of his fantasies from earlier—the electric guitar, the laser lights, the anger—rush into his head, but he pushes them aside. It's not the time, and as hurt as he is, he doesn't think Mercedes deserves that. And besides, he still doesn't remember all the words. "Sectionals is only a week away," is what he actually says. "I think the best thing would be to just, like, start rehearsing. I'll have plenty of time for solos after we win, right?"

"But—"

"Sam's right, Mr. Schue," Tina chimes in. "Without Rachel and Finn, we have to reassign solos in every number but I Will Survivor. We need to focus."

"That's the attitude I like to hear. And it's great to have you back, Sam," Mr. Schue grins, clapping him on the shoulder. "We're almost there, guys. Just one more person and—"

"Present," Quinn drawls from the doorway, her voice tinged with boredom.

"Quinn?" Not even Mr. Schue can keep his astonishment out of his voice.

"That's me."

"What are you doing here?" Mercedes asks, and Sam bristles automatically, wanting to take Quinn's side just because Mercedes doesn't seem to be on it right now.

Quinn shrugs lazily. "Rejoining glee, it looks like."

"Oh, so  _now_ you care?"

"Why now?" Puck pipes up in agreement from the back.

"Wow, really feeling the love and acceptance, guys," Quinn says, rolling her eyes. "If you trust me that little, fine, I'll just go."

"Not so fast, Quinn," Mr. Schue says, stopping her before she can turn around and walk out. "If you want to come back, we're happy to have you. It's just a sudden change of heart, is all. What made you change your mind?"

"Look, it's not that complicated. You guys need a twelfth member in order to compete; I need something to do after school so my mom gets off my case about not having any extracurriculars anymore. It's win-win. So… okay?"

At that Brittany, who'd been fidgeting in the first row since Quinn first leaned against the doorframe, rockets forward and wraps Quinn in a hug. "I knew you couldn't stay away," she says happily. "Welcome back, Q."

Sam observes the slope of Quinn's shoulders, the way she stiffens and tenses in Brittany's embrace before suddenly, inexplicably accepting it. He wonders how long they went without talking. He wonders, once more, what the  _hell_ happened to Quinn.

"Well, we've hit the magic number, guys!" Mr. Schue says, clapping his hands once. "Let's get to work!"

Rehearsal is pretty much all downhill from there, though. Sam has a good ear but he's awful at sight reading, and it feels like it takes forever for him to get any kind of grasp on Finn's old parts. He'd be able to concentrate better if he wasn't super aware of Mercedes' eyes on him the whole time, her looks alternating between long guilty stares and fierce bouts of glaring. Like she can't decide if she resents him or pities him. It sucks.

The choreography doesn't go much better, because even though Sam throws himself into it a hundred percent, Quinn seems reluctant to even move her feet, let alone dance, and she snaps at anyone who calls her out on it.

Glee feels like the longest hour and a half of his life. And he has it to look forward to every day this week, and extra on the weekend, just in time to perform for judges.

Yay.

* * *

By the time Sam pulls into Rachel's driveway, the only thing he wants is to go upstairs to the guest room and never leave his bed for the next million years, but he's halted in his tracks as soon as he walks through the door.

"Whoa. What smells awesome?" he asks automatically, kicking off his shoes and slinging his backpack onto the floor.

Rachel comes out of the kitchen wearing a polka-dotted apron and smiles hesitantly at him. "I made popcorn. The actual kind, not the microwavable stuff. I figured that after the day you've had you might want to just watch a movie or something, so, um—I found Iron Man streaming on Netflix? You like that movie, right?"

God, she's being totally serious. He's not gonna lie, part of Sam kind of just wants to cry right now. "Rachel?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna hug you now, okay?"

That's all the warning she gets before he basically crushes her to him like a human teddy bear, but she's a total good sport and just lets him smush her for a minute. She even reaches a hand up to play with the hair at the back of his neck as she hugs him back, and it's kind of ridiculously soothing.

After a while, she breaks the silence by saying, "I appreciate the sentiment, but I know you take your impersonations seriously, so I feel I owe you an honest critique: I've heard much better Rachel Berry impressions."

Sam laughs weakly as he lets her go. "I'll work on it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure my promises mean nothing to you now, but the wait for the next chapter—and ideally, any chapter—won't be as long. The Jimmy Eat World song Sam's thinking of, by the way, is called "No Sensitivity."


	5. The Tension Speaks - But We're Singing It

Watching Iron Man with Rachel is surprisingly awesome. She gasps at the right parts, laughs at the right parts, and makes these adorable little "awwwh" noises when Tony and Pepper are being cute. Things almost get awkward about halfway through when his arm cramps up and he stretches it over his head just long enough for Rachel to lean into his side a little, making it impossible for him to lower his arm again without wrapping it around her shoulders. He's worried for a second that she'll think he was making a move, or that _she_ actually  _was_ making a move, but then she doesn't even acknowledge it, and maybe… whatever. Cuddling is nice and she probably just misses Finn, and he gets that. He doesn't mention it.

As the credits roll she turns to look at him, pulling herself out of his loose grip. "So are you going to tell me about school?"

_What?_  "There's, uh. Not much to tell."

"Sam. You walked in here looking like you wanted to cry. Was it awful?" she prods sympathetically, eyes wide, and he feels himself shaking his head even though it was.

"Not all of it," he says, which is true. He isn't sure how to talk to her about the whole Finn thing, or even if she'd want to know, so he opens with, "Quinn rejoined glee."

Suddenly Rachel bounds off the couch, letting off a high-pitched squeal. "She  _did_? Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, starting to pace in what he assumes is an effort to work off her sudden rush of energy.

"Um, because Iron Man?" he ventures.

"That's wonderful! That's twelve! I knew I could get through to her. Everything's going to work out, I just know it."

"Well I mean, it didn't exactly go great. She barely participated, and pretty much no one trusts her."

"It's just going to take time, that's all," Rachel says dismissively. "Gosh, that's the  _best_  news. What else happened?"

"I don't know. Not much."

Something in his tone must sound suspicious, because she stops wearing a hole in the carpet long enough to give him a searching look. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing," he mumbles, unable to meet her eyes.

She sits back down, trying to catch his gaze. "Sam. I know our sure-to-be-lifelong intimate friendship is still in its infancy, but I promise—you can trust me. So… what is it? Did Shane give you trouble?"

"No, nothing like that. I, um." He takes a deep breath. "I talked to Finn."

He hadn't noticed how open Rachel's posture had been until he watches her literally seize up before his eyes. Her voice is stiff and uncomfortable as she asks, "And what did you talk about?"

"Santana, mostly. Like you said."

"Did something happen?"

He hesitates a moment longer before giving in. She's going to find out eventually; it might as well be from him. "Brittany slushied him at lunch for payback, and I helped him clean up. And he totally didn't get why it happened, so I tried to explain it to him. I think he listened? I don't know. He asked about you."

Any questions Rachel might have had about the slushying die on her lips. "He did?" she asks quietly, and Sam feels this innate, dudely urge to like, go out and  _do_  something to fix it so she'll stop looking at him like that. He's always been a total sucker for a girl with sad eyes.

"He said he was worried about you, because you're home and you're fighting with Kurt." Sam doesn't know if he should keep going, but he's not gonna lie if he can help it. "He wondered if there's any way you'll give him another chance."

Rachel curls up into the couch, pulling her knees against her chest and holding them there. "I don't know. What he did was… it was so awful, Sam."

"Santana wasn't even in school today. I think she wanted to avoid him."

He _cannot stand_  how exhausted and torn Rachel looks in this moment. She opens her mouth to speak, seems to change her mind, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. After a pause, she says, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't make this about me when you've had such a trying day. Do you want to talk about Mercedes?"

"Not really."

She opens one eye to scrutinize him. "Are you sure?"

"Maybe later. I talked to Ms. Pillsbury about it this morning, and that helped, but… I can't even decide how I feel about it yet. The only thing to talk about is how much it sucks, and that's just… no. I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, if you change your mind, I'm always willing to—" Before she can finish her sentence, she's interrupted by the front door opening.

"Rachel, I'm home," Hiram calls out, his voice approaching the den. "And you'll never guess who I found outside."

When he enters the living room, Kurt's trailing sheepishly behind him. Rachel automatically gets to her feet, smoothing out her skirt.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm not sure yet," Kurt says primly, but his expression is guilty. "But I just sat in your driveway for about a half hour trying to decide if I should come in or not, and your dad caught me, so…"

"Can you give us some privacy?" Rachel asks Sam, and he jumps off the couch as if it's lava.

"Yeah, sure, no problem." He turns to Rachel's dad. "Need any help with dinner or something, Mr. B?"

"It's Hiram, and no. I'd much rather you try and catch up on your schoolwork; I'm sure there's a lot to get done."

"Don't remind me," Sam groans, but obediently makes his way towards the stairs. He pauses on the third step, though, and doesn't keep going until he hears Kurt say, "Do you want to go first, or should I?"

* * *

Suddenly it's just Rachel and Kurt in the living room, awkwardly standing at opposite sides of the room. She rubs her arm, letting her hand hover there as weak protection. On the one hand, Kurt's  _here_ , which seems a vast improvement over the last few days, but with the way he's looking at her…

"Are you ever going to not be mad at me?" she finally ventures in a small voice, when it becomes clear that he's not going to start this conversation on his own.

He gives a curt laugh. "I don't know what you want me to say, Rachel."

"Well, starting with a yes or a no would give me an idea of where I stand."

"Of course I'm going to forgive you, Rachel, I just—" Kurt rolls his eyes with an exasperated sigh. "You are so frustrating, you know that?"

She smiles unevenly, flashing back to her attempt to write a song with Quinn for Regionals last year. "You're not exactly the first person to tell me that, no."

"I just don't understand how you could do that to me. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that it was your idea, and that I wanted my best friend with me in New York."

"And now neither of us will get there, Rachel, congratulations."

"It was  _your idea!_ "

"But I didn't go through with it, because  _you_  told me not to! You said it was immoral and it was; what gave you the right to go behind my back and do it anyway?"

"Because I wanted you to win! All I wanted was for you to get what  _you_  wanted, and you know what? Maybe you have. Now I'm suspended and I'm sure you're more than happy to take over my solo for Sectionals, so why do I still have to be the bad guy?" Rachel blurts, and then the room gets very quiet, very fast.

"What?" Kurt breathes, nostrils flaring, and Rachel throws herself onto the couch. It's all she can do not to curl up into a ball completely.

"Forget it," she whimpers into the cushion, but he won't, she knows he won't, and sure enough—

"No, I'm not going to forget anything.  _You're_ going to explain yourself, because if you think playing the victim will get you anywhere, it won't. And if you honestly think this was all some sort of ploy so I could get a competition solo, then I don't have anything to say to you."

"I don't know  _what_ I think!" she cries miserably. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I tried to run against you and I'm sorry I cheated for you and I'm so, so sorry if I ever made you feel like I don't believe in you, because everything I did is because I do. I'm already being punished for that, and I just—I really don't want you to hate me." She unfurls herself just enough to swipe at her watery eyes, and looks up at him. " _You're_  not in trouble, Kurt. I took all of the blame—which I admit I deserved—and you're mad at me anyway, and I don't know how to fix it and I'm sorry."

"Rachel, you're not making any sense. What on earth does that have to do with Sectionals?" Kurt asks, voice far gentler than it has been as he goes to sit with her on the couch.

She snorts, rolling her eyes. "Please. Don't tell me you all didn't jump for joy when I left that room and you realized you could restructure our set list without me."

"Are you kidding me? We panicked. We're still panicking. We depend on you, Rachel! Which is why it was so selfish of you to put yourself in this position, don't you see that?"

"Put myself in the position of giving up what  _I_ wanted and breaking the rules for  _you_ to get your way? No, Kurt. I—I am sorry, but I don't see how that's selfish."

"I didn't  _ask_ you to do that."

"You never do." She sniffles. "I just—I don't blame you for feeling frustrated and underappreciated, Kurt, and maybe now that I'm out of the picture you can be in the spotlight the way you deserve to be. I do see that I picked a terrible way to do it, and I'm apologizing. I can't make you accept it."

Kurt sighs. "Why does it always have to be one or the other with you?"

"Um, because that's the way it always is? That's how it was with Mercedes at the Night of Neglect Benefit last year. That's—that's how it's been ever since Mr. Schue took over glee club. Every competition, every solo. It's always m-me against everyone else, and I know I have to learn to be less self-centered. Believe it or not, Kurt, this was me trying to be."

"Rachel—"

"It's not  _fair,_ " she says, and her red-rimmed eyes seem suddenly clear. "It's not fair that all anyone asks me to do is step aside so they can shine, and then they tell me I've betrayed them when I do." She takes a shaky breath. "You don't depend on me. You depend on my voice, and that's not the same thing."

He scoots over on the couch and—with slow movements, as if asking for permission—delicately takes her into his arms. "Oh, honey. I think maybe  _I_  owe  _you_  an apology," he says, staring resolutely at the corner of the wall.

"What?" Rachel sniffles again, sure she misheard. "I—why?"

"Because apparently I've been a jerk, okay?" Kurt rolls his eyes, frustrated with the both of them. "Not that we all haven't. But, look, even if you didn't go about it wisely, I do see that you were trying to help me. And lord knows no one else was trying to. I appreciate that about you, Rachel, and… it scares me that you think our friendship only works if I'm winning and you're losing. I never meant for you to feel like that."

Rachel sighs and settles her head more comfortably into the crook of his neck. "I don't, I promise," she says in a small voice. "…Most of the time I don't."

"That's not okay," Kurt says back, just as quietly. "And I'm sorry."

After a moment, she lets her eyes drift closed. She feels totally drained. "Can we be done fighting now?"

"Yeah," he assures her, giving her a squeeze. "We're done."

* * *

When Sam comes back downstairs, he finds Kurt and Rachel cuddling on the couch, watching an episode of Teen Wolf. And like, really cuddling—she's practically on Kurt's lap, her legs stretched over his thighs and her head resting on his shoulder.

"Looks like you two made up," he comments lightly, only to be shushed for intruding.

"Not during a Sterek scene, Sam!" Kurt chastises in a hiss, and Sam has no idea what a Sterek is, but he figures he should leave them alone. He stopped watching Teen Wolf like twenty minutes into the first episode, because there was just no comparing it to the Michael J. Fox movie, which is one of his all-time favorites.

He wanders into the kitchen, where Rachel's dad is standing over a pot of simmering spaghetti sauce. " _Now_ do you need any help with dinner, Mr.—Hiram?"

Hiram laughs. "That depends. Are you caught up with your work?"

_No._  "Yes."

"Well alright then. I'm just about done with this, but we still need a salad. How are you at chopping vegetables?"

"I am awesome at chopping vegetables."

"Excellent. Consider yourself on sous chef duty. There are extra aprons in the pantry."

Sam takes a good look at Hiram's Kiss The Cook apron for the first time. "Um. Do I have to wear…?"

"House rules," Hiram says with a wink. Sam's not sure if he's kidding, because Rachel  _was_  wearing that polka-dotted one earlier just to make popcorn, so…

Whatever. He can make polka dots work.

(Dr. Berry laughs at him when he walks in and sees what he's wearing. But then again, Dr. Berry apparently isn't even allowed in the kitchen on nights when they eat Italian food because one time he set a fire trying to toast garlic bread in the oven, so Sam feels pretty confident about his place in the pecking order.)

* * *

Kurt ends up staying for dinner, and Rachel beams the whole time. It's like when Sam mentioned Finn all over again, only in reverse—this time, instead of going from relaxed to tense in a split second, after her talk with Kurt she's gone from… he doesn't even know.

It's starting to dawn on him that Rachel really hasn't been happy, for the past few days. It was like… the first thing he thinks of is that line from How The Grinch Stole Christmas: _there's a light on this tree that won't light on one side._  She'd been trying it, faking it 'til she made it, but now that he can see the difference it's pretty easy for him to figure out that things haven't been okay with her lately.

_This_  is what she looks like when she's happy: lit up.

Rachel's dads seem happy to see Kurt—or at least, happy that Rachel's happy to see Kurt—and ask him all sorts of questions about Blaine and college applications and his dad's election.

Of course, then they ask Sam about his first day back (shitty) and his homework (totally not done) and he turns to Rachel helplessly in hopes she'll save him.

"Well, according to Sam's report, he and I don't share any classes, but his locker is only partway down the hall from mine. So we'll see each other during the school day."

"We'd see each other anyway, wouldn't we?" Sam asks around a mouthful of food. When Kurt gives him a pointed look, he swallows sheepishly before continuing, "Like at lunch and stuff?"

She looks at him funny, like she can't tell if he's joking or not. "We already share breakfast and dinner together every day due to our living arrangements; I'd hardly be upset if you wanted to spend at least one meal a day with someone else."

"Like who?" Sam asks, genuinely baffled. He  _likes_ hanging out with Rachel, and it's not like they don't have all the same friends. For the most part.

"Like…" Rachel's face falls as she seems to realize he can't exactly sit with Mercedes or the football players, but then she inexplicably brightens. "Like Quinn! Now that she's back in glee, I'm sure she'll be more open to socializing with us again. She's always had a soft spot for you."

"Wait, Quinn's back in glee?" Leroy asks, looking at Sam and Kurt for confirmation, and Kurt nods.

"God only knows why, but she is."

"Well that's wonderful!" Hiram laughs, raising his glass in a mock-toast to Rachel. "Well done, sweetie, your tenacity prevailed!"

"When doesn't it?" Leroy grouses, and Rachel pouts at him.

"Daddy, don't be mean."

"Who's being mean? I'm just stating a fact. But in all seriousness, I'm very glad to hear that it's all worked out, and glee club isn't in danger of being disbanded. This week."

Kurt snorts into his meatless meatball, and Rachel glares at both of them. "It isn't funny!"

"Of course it's not, babydoll."

* * *

Kurt lingers as long as he can over the dinner table, but eventually he says he has to go home, thanks Rachel's dads for a lovely meal, and walks out the door.

Sam lasts about seventeen seconds before tearing after him.

"Hey, Kurt, wait up," Sam says, jogging to catch him before he can open his car door. "Can I talk to you a second?"

"Yes…?" Kurt says, raising an eyebrow. He's probably super talked out from spending the night with the Berrys, but Sam just can't stop himself.

"How did—is—" He doesn't know how to ask what he wants to ask. He exhales sharply, and sets his shoulders. "Is Mercedes mad at me? Is this a revenge thing?"

Kurt laughs a little. "What? Why would you think…?"

"Because Shane Tinsley sucks and I just don't get why she'd date him unless she's mad at me." It feels good to say, even if he does feel like a jerk for even thinking it.

"It wasn't like that. They worked at the pool together over the summer, they clicked, they got together. It happens. I don't know what to tell you."

"I'm sorry, but I don't buy that. How can they click when they have nothing in common? Maybe  _revenge thing_ was putting it a little harsh, but just be straight with me, dude: is she mad at me? Because, like…" He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "If I'm gonna walk into glee tomorrow just to have her be all 'everything you own in a box to the left,' I need to know about it. I can't handle that with no warning."

Kurt's eyes are doing that soft, pitying thing they sometimes do. Sam's never liked that look; it always means someone sounds super dumb and Kurt doesn't know how to tell them so. "I  _am_ being straight with you. Well, as straight as I know how to be," he quips with a smirk, before letting his expression fall back into something more compassionate. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. But… what I think you don't get about this situation is that for Mercedes, this isn't Beyonce-level drama. At all. You were gone a long time, Sam. This is Rihanna drama at best."

"Like Take a Bow Rihanna or, like… Love the Way You Lie Rihanna?" He'd almost asked  _S &M Rihanna _but it probably isn't that. He thinks.

"Neither. What's My Name Rihanna."

"That's… not even a fighting song."

"No. It's not," Kurt says slowly, and, like…  _oh._

Suddenly he hates his brain for thinking of those stupid Beyonce lyrics, because now all he can think is he must  _not_ know about her, after all. Which is just—dumb. On so many levels.

"Sam?"

"Is she happy?" he asks suddenly, because he has to know.

"She doesn't seem…  _un_ happy," Kurt says carefully. "Sam, you have to understand: when you left, you just completely fell off the grid."

"I was dealing with a lot!" he snaps, because, like—he  _was._

"I know you were. But you weren't here, and Shane was. And as far as she's concerned, that's it. She doesn't owe you anything."

"He's not a good guy, Kurt. She deserves better than him. Have you even, like, talked to her about it?" Suddenly Kurt's eyes are on his shoes, the lamp across the street, anywhere but Sam, and it raises alarm bells. " _Kurt._ "

"To be honest, we haven't been talking much, lately."

"And that doesn't make you think something's up?"

"People change. The things they want change. Things never really got back to normal between us since I started dating Blaine, and that's okay. Some friendships don't last forever, and I have Rachel now. Mercedes is allowed to have her own life."

"Yeah, but—"

"What is it that you think is going to happen, Sam? You're just going to march back into her life and demand that you pick up where you left off?"

"No, but—"

"You don't have to like the fact that she's dating Shane, but you do have to respect it."

"But he  _sucks!_ " Sam shouts, way louder than he intended, then claps a hand over his own mouth. It's getting kind of late and the last thing he wants is to make Rachel's neighbors hate him.

"It's Mercedes' choice to make. Lord knows I'll never be friends with Shane Tinsley, but if he's who she wants, then that's that."

Suddenly Sam's own words to Finn from earlier are ringing in his ears.  _You're right, it is a shitty way to live. But you don't get to decide how Santana lives her life._

He just can't keep up the energy to be mad like this anymore, and he deflates all at once. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I—it'll just take time for me to get used to it, I guess. Thanks for…" He can't get his tongue to form the words  _talking some sense into me._ "Thanks."

"Just returning the favor."

"…Huh?"

"I owed you one. What you said about Rachel this morning made me think about some things, and… I'm really glad I came over tonight."

"Oh. Well. No problem." He takes a step back. "Drive safe, Kurt."

"See you tomorrow."

Rachel's waiting for him in the foyer when he steps inside, which—he doesn't think she was eavesdropping, but he also wouldn't put it past her—and before she can finish asking "What was that about?" he's halfway up the stairs.

* * *

He feels bad about being kind of a dick to Rachel, but his brain is just, like, on fire with everything he's had to deal with today. He knows that with glee club on the line and Sectionals so close and with everything that's happened with Santana that his problems are, like, not even close to being important, but he's spent all day acting like it and he's just exhausted.

It's just—it  _sucks._  It was one thing to give Mercedes up, but it's another thing entirely to lose her, and he was so unprepared for that. He didn't even know it was an option.

Suddenly—desperately—he wants to go  _home._ He misses his parents, he misses his siblings, he misses feeling like he had a clue what was going on in his life.

He digs out his phone and dials.

* * *

Calling home helped a little—hearing his mom's voice, listening to his dad's advice, getting to wish Stevie and Stacey goodnight—but Sam knows his day can't really end until he has this conversation.

He knocks on Rachel's door.

"Come in!"

As he steps into her room, he takes a brief moment to look around. It's actually his first time seeing it, despite having been here several days. It's cute—all pastels and stuff, and all of her posters are actually framed and hung nicely, rather than thrown up with sticky tack like his were back home. It suits her. She's laying on her bed watching a youtube video, but she pauses it as he closes her door behind him.

"Hey, Rachel? I just wanted to, um. Say thank you, for earlier. With the movie. You really didn't have to do that, and it… meant a lot, that you did."

"It was the least I could do. I should have prepared you better for…" she thinks about her wording before settling on "—all of the changes. I wasn't thinking. And to be honest, I was glad to have something to do. It's just the first day and I already hate being suspended." She smiles, like that was a joke, but he's just too tired to laugh and her face falls a little. "Sam, are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"No," he mumbles.

"Why don't you come sit," she says, sitting up herself to make room for him on the bed. Unwilling to argue, he drags himself over and sits across from her. "…So?"

He takes a deep breath. He doesn't know how to talk about this. "I don't like being mad."

"I don't think anyone does," Rachel says, keeping her voice neutral.

"I guess I was kind of hoping that if I didn't talk about it I could just… not be mad? But god, I just—at first I was just sad, and pissed off that she didn't tell me, but like. There shouldn't be anything to tell. I don't  _get_ this." He runs a hand through his hair. "I just. I guess I can believe Mercedes doesn't want me back. And I'm happy she's happy, but…"

"But?"

"But I just can't figure out why she'd choose him over me."

"To be honest," Rachel says slowly, clearly choosing her words with care, "I was never really sure what you saw in each other in the first place. I'm very fond of you both, but you just never seemed all that compatible."

"What, because she's black and I'm white?" he blurts, because it's been on his mind all day and he  _hates_ it but that's what it is. It's the only thing he can think of.

Rachel gives him an acid look he's never been on the receiving end of before; he flinches automatically. "How dare you. Have you forgotten that I myself am the product of an interracial marriage?"

His jaw slackens. "I… jeez, Rachel, sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry. I'm just… used to having to be defensive about it, I guess. Was used to it."

"Did you fight about it a lot, when you dated?"

"No? Maybe. I mean, I didn't think we fought. For a long time she wanted to keep us a secret, but I thought that was just about not wanting to rock the boat, with the club being so crazy around Nationals last year. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was this whole big thing for her and I didn't even notice."

"Did anything ever happen?"

"Like what?" Sam asks, because—of course stuff happened, they dated for like two months.

Rachel seems really sad, though. "I'd… rather not repeat some of the things my fathers have been called by people in this town."

"Oh! No. No, nothing like that. Sometimes her parents would tease her about me when I came over for dinner—call me White Boy and stuff—but I didn't think… I mean.  _Your_ parents tease  _you._ I didn't think it was weird. God, am I really that stupid?"

"You're not stupid, Sam."

"Well, apparently I am, because Shane freaking Tinsley is better at figuring Mercedes out than I am."

Rachel frowns. "Wait. You just said you didn't fight, and nothing happened, but before that you said you were used to being defensive about the relationship. That doesn't add up. Were  _your_ parents a problem?"

"No, but she didn't want to tell them about us being together for like a really long time. So I guess we did fight about that. It just never seemed like a big deal to me."

"Sam, you'd just come out of a relationship with Santana, and before that,  _Quinn._ Do you think it's possible that you just… missed some things, because she wasn't being outright hostile with you?"

Sam's eyes widen. "That's—"

"Very rude of me, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, I was going to say that's kind of a good point. I don't know. I never would have thought about this stuff if she wasn't dating Shane now, but she is, and it's like that makes everything different. I thought we had a good thing going. She was the Zoe to my Wash."

"I have no idea what that means."

He reaches over for her laptop, and with her nod, opens a new tab and does a quick google image search. "That's Zoe and Wash. They were a couple on Firefly, this—whatever, it's not important. She's like this badass warrior woman and he's this total nerd, but they loved each other."

Rachel stares at the pictures on her screen with a furrowed brow. "I don't claim to be an expert, but what I learned with Finn is that maybe… just because you wanted her to be Zoe doesn't mean she was. Maybe she didn't want to be Zoe. Maybe she just wanted to be Mercedes."

"It wasn't like that!" Sam insists defensively, but like. What the hell does he know? They're broken up and she's dating someone about as opposite from Sam as he can imagine. Maybe it  _was_ like that. "All I know is that Mercedes just  _got_ me. Like, maybe we don't seem all that alike at first, but she bought out good stuff in me, and I brought out good stuff in her. And she thinks I'm dumb and cute for being dumb at the same time.  _Thought._ I don't know. We had the really important stuff in common. Glee. Church. We talked about a lot of stuff." It sounds weak, even to his own ears.

"…I'm sorry things didn't turn out like you wanted," Rachel says after a long movement.

"Yeah, well. I'm getting used to it."

* * *

That night, Sam dreams about Mercedes singing Irreplaceable at him in the choir room.

The worst part is that she sounds awesome on it.


End file.
